In Echoes, There Are Other Words I've Said
by thefooliam
Summary: After Senator Bryan Ryan dies, Presidential candidate Will Schuester is sure he has Democratic nomination in the bag. So does his campaign manager Santana Lopez, until she meets a mysterious woman at a motel. AU.
1. Bow vs Mississippi

Part One

_Columbus, OH_

_June 21, 2015 _

She's pretty sure she's forgotten how to sleep.

No. Really.

The last time she made the effort to try to remember the last time she'd got some rest it had been three days since she'd taken a nap, so, it's been a while. That's not counting the accidental dozes she sometimes takes, but those barely count. They're always for no more than five minutes and she always ends up feeling worse once she comes round from one. Whatever. It's nothing a cup of coffee and a Red Bull can't fix.

Fuck, this damn campaign is going to give her a stroke.

She's not even thirty.

Still, it takes fucking effort to be twenty-eight and already be the manager of a damn presidential campaign. She can sleep when William Schuester becomes President of the United States.

Well, maybe.

If he makes her his Chief Of Staff she's pretty sure she hasn't got a hope in hell of sleeping in the next four years, and it's looking that way. She'd rip his balls of if he didn't and he knows it.

"Lopez, wake the fuck up."

She jolts, eyes bleary and blinks an unnecessary amount of times.

How the fuck did that happen?

"Lopez!" someone snaps and she jolts again, blinks some more until she realizes she's not wearing her glasses. That kind of explains it. "What are you doing?"

She buries around under a trees worth of paper and finds her glasses, pushing them quickly up her nose. The image of Noah Puckerman in his Bears jersey comes into focus and she scoffs.

"Sorry, sorry," she mumbles straightening her desk. "I was just resting my eyes for a minute."

"And practicing your drooling?" he says cocking an eyebrow. "What I meant was, what are you doing sleeping in your office? You look like shit, babe. Just... FYI."

She scoffs because, ugh, _babe_. She's not a pig but she most certainly is a feminist and he's vile.

"I had work to do," she grumbles, searching through the pages of statistics and polling data she'd been raking through before she assumes she nodded off. "What time is it?"

"About three."

She stops and peers at him over the top of her glasses. "So, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Oh, yeah." He flops down into the chair in front of her and pulls a damn sandwich out of thin air. He pulls back the wrapper and takes a bite. For a moment, Santana's pretty sure that he's forgotten what he was doing, but then he's kicking his feet up onto her desk and turning to her.

"Turn on CNN."

She looks at him curiously but then reaches around for the remote to the TV that's always kept on stand-by for emergencies like this. She flicks it on and finds the channel but then pauses because of what it tells her.

A news anchor on one side of the split screen talks to a reporter on the other side and words run underneath them both declaring in bold, definitive font what they're reporting. For a second, Santana's pretty sure she's sleeping again and this is just a dream, but she pinches herself discreetly and coroners start yanking out a body bag and the reality comes crashing down on her like the best bucket of ice cold water. She opens her mouth, gaping like a fish as she turns to Puckerman. He's grinning like an idiot when she finally manages to look at him. Words like cocaine, prostitutes and overdose are the only ones her brain are registering. Whether it really understands what they mean for her is to be decided.

"So," Puck says when it's been five minutes of Santana looking from the TV to him, to the TV to him. He throws his trash across the room into the can and shrugs his shoulders with that look in his eye. "Any chance of a celebration?"

/

She was the only one in the office at eleven o'clock but by four-thirty half of her staff are at their desks, waiting for instruction.

"Where the fuck _is _he?" Santana says searching, only finding the intern she sent away fifteen minutes ago to get her coffee.

Puck's still sat in front of the TV, watching as events unfold across the country. She guesses that there's little else to report on at this time of the morning because there's still a reporter watching the events outside the LA hotel on one side of the screen, but there's also the anchor and a political commentator on the other side debating how these events might affect what happens in Iowa and New Hampshire.

The poor guy's not even cold yet and they're already moving on from the loss.

She's also confused to why they _aren't_ noticing that the only people they're bringing out the hotel in cuffs are men in very badly made suits.

"He had that thing downtown earlier," Puck says bored. "They're probably not even at home yet." His feet are kicked up onto the shelves that cover the walls of her office, holding her books and the tons of carbon-copy files she keeps, just in case of a technological failure. "Do you think we could convince a couple of those interns to go get us pizza or something? I'm starving."

Santana scoffs. She needs numbers and dates and fucking... graphs. She needs lots of damn graphs, tables and charts because all the ones she had are now irrelevant because, with one wrong snort of some high-class hooker's crappy cocaine, the entire game has changed.

Her mind is working in overdrive and she's pretty sure it's fate or something that she managed to fall asleep for three hours because now she's buzzing with energy. Strategy and theory are pulsing through her body and, she wouldn't usually admit it, but a slice of pizza might just set her off on her A-game.

"It's their job," she shrugs. "I'm pretty sure they have to do anything we ask of them if it aids the forward progression of this campaign. One of its leading consultants can't work if he's hungry, so just... go ask one of them." He nods and is out of his chair on his way to the door before she notices. When she does notice, she calls his name softly, eyes still on last night's stats. He pokes his head back around the doorway and she shakes her head at him. "Please don't have sex with them while you're there."

He grins and she knows it's just going to make him try harder.

/

Quinn appears around five am, one of the last to arrive. She's got her big sunglasses on (the ones that block out the most sunlight), and Santana rolls her eyes before her best friend has even opened her mouth.

"Why does rum always give me cotton mouth when vodka and gin don't?" is the first thing she says as she collapses backwards onto the couch in the corner. Seriously, sometimes Santana's pretty sure she's running a pre-school, not a Presidential campaign. Quinn holds her head in her hands. "It doesn't make any sense."

Santana doesn't spare her a glance, trying her hardest to remember that Quinn has a PhD from Yale. "When you're done doing that do you mind doing your job and like... giving media advice to this campaign?"

Quinn pulls one of the plain, scratchy throw cushions onto her face and moans in what sounds like pain. Santana doesn't really care enough to work it out. "Give me coffee and I'll do anything you want," she pulls the cushion away. "And I mean anything."

"Ugh."

"I'm serious. I'm not wearing any underwear and I have a hangover the size of Puckerman's ego."

Santana snorts. "If you'd said 'penis' I would have had no sympathy for you whatsoever."

"The amount of times you've had sex with him says differently," Quinn snorts dryly.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Santana says before she shouts "COFFEE!" at a passing intern. "I haven't had sex with Puck for ages."

"The orgasm glow in your cheeks says differently too," Quinn chuckles through her nose. "As does the fact that your underwear is hanging off the back of your chair."

Santana turns sharply and sure enough, there are her panties, clinging to the back of the chair. She grabs them, scoffs and blushes at the same time before slipping into her seat and yanking them back up her legs. Quinn watches her the whole time with a pleased smirk on her face.

"Is he really that good?" she asks curiously.

Santana just looks up at her, severely unimpressed that no one wants to talk about the most important thing right now; the reason why they're all at work at five am. "You'll have to find that out for yourself," she mumbles stubbornly.

An intern enters with two cups of coffee and Quinn takes hers brightly, sitting up and blowing her short, scruffy hair from her eyes. The intern barely pays them any attention as she carries a stack of papers under both arms and a report file in between her teeth. She also wears a fanny pack and seems to have about four Blackberrys attached to a very ugly belt.

"I already did!" Quinn says suddenly confused. "That probably says a lot, but I'd had a bottle of rum at the time and the only thing I do remember is the cotton mouth. He's gotta be huge."

The intern is still stood by Santana's desk but she doesn't seem fazed by the conversation, or its inappropriateness. She looks between them as she puts down one of the stacks of papers, to hand the file to Santana, and narrows her eyes.

"He's not," Santana says, looking at the new information in front of her.

The intern just stands there, still looking between both of them. When the moment starts to get awkward and Quinn still hasn't said anything, Santana looks up, irritated.

"Are you talking about Puckerman?" the intern asks. Quinn nods. "He's really not," she says before heading back to the doorway where she turns back to them. "Average. A lot of room for improvement, if you ask me."

She leaves, running into the man himself in the doorway. Quinn stares at him intrigued and Santana just smirks into her cup of coffee. He looks at Quinn reproachfully when she doesn't stop staring at his crotch with everything _but_ lust. His hands cover himself carefully as he turns to Santana.

"Boss is back," he says carefully and it's the second best lot of news she's had all night.

/

Except, Will doesn't look too happy for a person whose odds of becoming president just increased tenfold. He actually looks pretty pissed.

"Are you serious?" he says. "_This_ is allyou woke me up for? Just to tell me that Ryan's dead?"

The entire team of strategists and consultants behind her remain silent. Will's about as intimidating as a fucking dead fly but it's not really him they're worried about. Santana steps closer, scoffing as she goes, hip cocked and hand resting on it. The entire group takes a step back to get out of her way.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she scoffs, eyes narrowed. "Are you stupid or just stupid? Your main damn opponent, the man that's been kicking your ass for the past six fucking months just burned up his campaign in a fiery ball of overdose and scandal making you looking like the fucking light of God shines out of your ass and you don't even give a shit?"

He stands up, knuckles leaning against his desk and pushes himself towards her. "No, that's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that the guy just damn died and you're more concerned about how we're going to get his fucking endorsements than you are about writing the damn statement I'm going to give the news the minute I _should_ be waking up. That's what you should be worried about." Around the room, everyone looks at each other, all except Santana who stares at Will with murderous contempt. "This is what I pay you for," he says, slapping a hand onto his desk with every word. "What good am I here when I should be at home resting? What do you want Santana? You want me to write the damn thing myself?"

Santana tries to step forward but finds Quinn's fingers tugging her back by the waistband of her skirt so that Will can't see. She coughs once, which Santana knows means _don't_. The last thing she wants is another lecture about how _maybe_ Santana should consider anger management again but he's such an asshole she can't help herself.

"You also pay me to provide you with advice on how to win this fucking election," she says low and unsteady with anger. "You pay me to manage this campaign so it's successful. This is how things are out here, okay? This is how politics work. This isn't just fucking Ohio now. This is the country we're talking about running, the whole fucking world, so how about you be prepared to lose a little bit of sleep like the rest of us, huh? How about you keep your fucking promises to make a change and act like the leader you say you're going to be."

Will's jaw tenses and he starts to breathe unevenly. Quinn grips tighter at her skirt, except she feels like maybe that isn't to stop her from jumping forward anymore, but to be able to pull her quickly back if Will clears the desk and starts mauling her.

Santana doesn't waver, though. She looks at him and thinks of all the shit that comes out his mouth, all the promises he made her and all the potential she saw in him when he cornered her at that fucking mixer in Washington. She replays all the words that were convincing enough that she even moved back to Ohio after ten years, when she promised herself that she'd never set foot here again. It's been getting a lot harder to not think it's all bullshit, recently. Really, really hard.

"That's how politics works, huh?" he says after a few moments, voice shaky. "You're twenty-eight. This is your third job in three years. What the hell would you know?

Santana swallows and laughs at him mirthlessly. Her fingers clench at the papers in her hands and , without a thought, throws them into his face. He splutters but she doesn't care. She hopes he gets a paper cut in his stupid butt chin.

"A hell of a lot more than you," she quips dangerously before shrugging out of Quinn's grasp and turning on her heel. "Gimme a call when you wanna win," she tosses over her shoulder, sad that she can't see Will's face when she slams the door.

/

It takes twelve hours, CNN, Fox News and every political news outlets in the country to comment on the Schuester campaign's lack of reaction to Ryan's death for him to come crawling back.

Quinn finds her, sitting at the end of a bar getting hit on by three Ohio State boys, and thirty minutes later he's wandering in before his bodyguard and wife, begging her to tell him what to do.

She would brag and rub it in, but it got boring after the fifth time.

/

He gives a statement on the steps of the Ohio State Capitol to a crowd of cameras and recorders early the next morning.

"Bryan Ryan's untimely death is a loss to the political community," he says, wearing a black tie instead of his usual blue one. "It would not be an exaggeration to say that it's possible that America has lost a man who could have become one of the greatest presidents this country has ever seen, with a great vision to change it for the better. It is left behind for me, as his fellow Democratic candidate, to channel those ideas to avoid the loss of his genius and honor them in his memory. I send my condolences to his wife and family, and mourn the loss of a friend and mentor who greatly affected not just my life, but the the lives of the thousands who admired him. Thank you."

Santana stands to the side clutching her notes to her chest. She's there to meet him as he steps back towards the building, away from the press and shakes his head at her as he approaches.

"I still think I should have said I'd go to the funeral," he mumbles, waving to the crowds as they disappear back inside.

Santana shakes her head. "And what? Have me magic the time for you to go out my ass? If you say you're going to the funeral you look like an ass when you don't turn up. Priorities."

"It'll make me look good."

Santana scoffs. "You'll look like an ass because of those ad libs you just put in that speech. Do you realize what you just practically promised?" Will looks at her confused and she laughs a little. "Bryan Ryan built an entire campaign around all the things you're pretty much against."

"Oh."

"Yeah," she says dryly. "So, if you'll excuse me, I have to go find a way to make you not look like a flakey idiot." He nods and she rolls her eyes. "Wish me luck," she says. "Here's your notes for the fundraiser in Dayton."

/

There's some more negative press for a couple more days before she writes him a speech in Hartford that gets him a fifteen minute standing ovation.

Two days after that, he's in first place again and everyone's of the opinion that he's got the candidacy in the bag.

She steps into her office the morning after to a bottle of champagne and a note.

_I'd be lost without you, kid. _It says_. Get some sleep tonight. You're gonna need it once we're in Washington. _

She smirks and starts to remember all the reasons she believed him in the first place.

/

She gets two days off for the Fourth of July weekend and comes back on the morning of the seventh to chaos.

"He didn't come home last night," Mike tells her as he meets her at the doors to the building clutching a cup of coffee he instantly hands her. She likes Mike, he's prompt and useful and doesn't seem to be capable of putting a foot out of place. "The pilot was waiting for him at 6am this morning, because he has the meeting with the school board in Des Moines, and he wasn't there."

Santana sips the coffee. "What do you mean?" she says lowly, hoping to hell that she's hearing wrong. "He was meant to be having a quiet weekend at home with the kids."

Mike nods. "I know," he hands her some mail and she flicks through the envelopes. "But we called Emma once the pilot called us and she said that he told her that he had to stay in Des Moines until today because he had meetings all the way through until tonight."

Santana pauses, a mix of alarm and anger suddenly thrumming through her. She looks around them wary of anyone overhearing and then thinks better, dragging Mike into an empty elevator and closing the door before anyone else can jump in.

"Promise me that you said nothing to Emma about there being zero meetings with anyone until this afternoon?" she says warningly, daring him to lie.

Mike shakes his head adamantly. "I told her that I must be looking at the wrong schedule and said that I was sorry I'd bother her so early."

Santana nods, relieved. "Good," she mumbles, more to herself than him because, _God_, _not again_. She paces the elevator as it takes them high up the building. "He's probably forgotten that he actually _does_ have a meeting this afternoon, so you need to be quick and get Quinn and Puck to help you," she says quietly. "Call all the normal sorts of places and try all the usual names. Do whatever you need to do to keep this quiet and call the pilot; tell him we're on our way."

/

It doesn't take long because he's nothing but a creature of habit. Santana takes a look at the place from her seat in the cab and makes a note to get him tested for all kinds of things because, _Jesus_. Not even she had to steep this low at her very worst.

"He promised you he wasn't going to do this again," Quinn says quietly from beside her. Santana just gives her a look that quickly silences her. They've got a chatty cabby and, sure enough, he also has supersonic hearing.

"You got problems with your old man?" he asks her through his rear view. Santana peers up at him over the top of her glasses. "For another twenty, I can kick his ass and make it look like an accident."

Santana shoves her things at Quinn and opens the door. "How about I give you another twenty to mind your own fucking business?" she says as she shimmies out the car. "Wait, you should be doing that anyway because it's what I'm paying you for. Wait here until I tell you you can leave."

She slams the door closed on his quick apologies and heads towards the motel. She takes a look around her and up at the door they spotted from the car and heads towards it, heels clicking over the asphalt of the parking lot. She keeps her hands to herself as she precariously climbs the stairs to the second floor and wanders up towards room 2F, making sure to not touch anything.

That's until she gets to the door and there's no way she can't not touch something. She pulls the jacket of her sleeve up a little until it covers her wrist and tries her hardest to hit that against the wood, failing miserably when the sound it makes is nothing but a dull tap. Still, she's not risking hepatitis for anybody. She taps some more, quick and frantic and looks towards the stairs to nervously see if anyone's watching.

"You know, they're a lot cleaner than they look."

Santana jumps and turns in the other direction to find a woman staring at her. She's tall and blond and like... well, she guesses that a lot of people would call her hot. But, like, people call Quinn hot and this chick is above and beyond that. She's all sparkling blue eyes and a perfect smile. Santana opens her mouth to bite out a snarky warning, but finds that she can't.

"They also have outstanding coffee making facilities," the woman says when Santana just stands there staring, wrist halfway to rapping at the door. "And, like, there's an extra couple of pillows and a blanket in the closet if you need it, which is more than I've had in some of the places I've slept in... if you get what I mean."

Santana thinks she does, but she's not quite sure, which is a new concept because there isn't often a time when she's not sure she gets something. She either does or she doesn't.

The woman narrows her eyes, tapping the motel key card against her palm. "Are you okay?" she asks, gently.

Santana's not sure why she's so out of her comfort zone. Her mile a minute mind convinces her that it's just because this woman seems to be genuinely nice and undeserving of her usual bitchiness. With the added reminder that she's only had one cup of coffee today and she's probably lost half the usual capacity of her intelligence, she's sure she understands why she's currently looking like such a dick.

"I..." she stutters out. "I'm - I'm trying..." She trails off.

The woman smiles kindly. "One of those days?" she says without a hint of teasing. "I have those sometimes." She shrugs. "I forget my words sometimes, too. And..." Her eyes spark suddenly and she pats down her pockets. "I forget my cellphone _all the time_." She laughs and slips her key card into the lock. "Excuse me," she smiles and then she's stepping back into the room, closing the door behind her.

Santana shakes herself quickly and starts rapping on the door with her bare knuckles, desperate to not be there when the woman reemerges.

"It's me," she hisses when she hears shocked gasps from within, the low warning voice of someone desperate to not be caught. "I swear to _God_, Will... you said you wouldn't fucking do this anymore. It's fucking – "

She stops as the door opens but it's punctuated by the door down the hall reopening at the same time. Will stands at the door wrapped in a sheet as the woman along the hall exits her room and closes the door.

Santana's struck dumb at the sight of her again, for different reasons this time, glad when Will turns his face away without even being told to do so. The woman smiles and readjusts her bag over her shoulder, pulls her thick wool hat over her ears and taps her cellphone against her palm just like she'd done her key card. She wanders past them, squeezing past Santana as she dumbly turns to watch her leave.

When they're face to face in the tiny walkway, the woman smirks. "Have a better day," she mumbles so only Santana can hear. Santana's pretty sure she doesn't blink until a few moments later when she sees the woman crossing the street below.

"Do you think she recognized me?" Will says from within the room. Santana rounds on him like a hungry, rabid dog and hits him square in his bare and sweaty chest.

"I don't fucking know, you _idiot_," she hisses breathlessly. "And if she did it's your own damn fault for doing this again."

She pushes past him and into the room, heading straight for the pretty little red head in the corner. He really is nothing but a creature of habit in everything he does. Pretty little red heads and crazy fake blondes are what he always goes for. Always. But he's really not picky as long as he gets his dick wet.

"You," Santana says pointing to her. "Address and damn phone number now because here's the deal: you keep your slutty mouth shut and we deliver an envelope of hundred dollar bills to your home within the next forty-eight hours. Mr -"

She looks to Will, waiting.

"Clooney," he says from the doorway.

She rolls her eyes. "Mr Clooney will greatly appreciate it."

The girl nods because Santana prides herself in being intimidating in other ways than her genius-level intelligence and good looks. She spins on her heels and glares at Will.

"You. Get dressed. You've got a thing to get to."

/

She refuses to talk to him until he comes to find her the next day when she's getting ready for a fundraiser in Alabama.

Quinn leaves the room when he invites himself in and Santana barely turns her eyes away from the mirror to look at him. She just continues to pin her hair back and make herself look good, just as he'd instructed, while Will sits himself down on the end of the bed.

"I was drunk."

She shakes her head, her rage causing her hands to shake. She slams down the bobby pins in her hands until they fly around her on the floor.

"For three days?" she says quietly, unable to mask her disappointment. "After that thing with the blonde you said you wouldn't risk it. You said that being good was more important." She scoffs. "You have a fucking wife, Will. You have two daughters and a family and you're frontrunner to win the candidacy. Why would you fuck all that up for a girl who couldn't even spell her own address correctly?"

He leans forwards, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together in front of him. His wedding ring glimmers in the refracted light from the mirror. He doesn't look guilty, or ashamed. He just looks sorry that he got caught. She doesn't want to call the bubbling in her stomach regret. She doesn't want to call it doubt, either. She looks him up and down through the mirror and tries to see all the good things about him.

"I'll try to be better," he shrugs. "I'll try to be better because I know how much people have given up for me. You, especially. It's just... this is harder than I thought it would be."

Santana's shoulders slump hopelessly. She doesn't know how to tell him that she's sure it's only going to get harder.

"You're lucky that there's nobody better out there, you know?" she decides to tell him instead. "You're really damn lucky that no one wants to run for president anymore. Ryan's dead, Whittier's a grumpy old shit who appeals to other grumpy old shits. Hudson's... he's a toddler. It'd be like _Bear In The Big Blue House. _Well, White House." Will laughs and shakes his head."You're the only one good enough to vote for and be left with a hope in hell of us not getting bombed by China or something."

"You really need to brush up on your foreign affairs, I think," Will says carefully. Santana can't help the smile that quirks at the corners of her mouth.

"You know what I mean," she says, rolling her eyes. "You've got to do everything right if we're going to have a chance of winning this thing." He nods and she sighs as he gets up silently. "You told me you wanted to change things," she says as he wanders across the room to the door. It sounds like a warning.

"I know," he pauses at the door handle and looks back at her. "I'll be better," he repeats and then he's gone.

/

He does get better... so much better, in fact, that his schedule becomes almost too much to handle.

They're darting across the country, doing more things in a day than they should. He asks Emma and the girls to come with him to everything they can to make him look better. People who weren't going to vote for him before start seeing him as the wholesome face of family values and he he goes up in the polls quicker than she thought possible.

What's even better is that he starts talking properly about things that matter instead of making up his own bullshit. He reads his notes – she catches him doing it – and the things she told him to say, the things he told her he actually cared about, start leaving his mouth with perfectly formed reasoning.

He looks at her sometimes and she knows he's making sure she's satisfied.

She doesn't know how she couldn't be when everyone else is.

He's going to be the damn president and it's going to be all because of her.

She knows it.

/

"Lopez!"

She jolts awake.

Shit. Not again.

"What?" she says, rubbing her eyes and searching for her glasses. She really needs to stop taking them off because every time she does she falls asleep and she just doesn't have time for that right now.

Maybe she can, like, glue them to her face or something.

"Line four," Quinn says from her desk just outside Santana's office. She barely has enough time to sit around and do nothing anymore. Santana's pretty sure she's doing her own work and acting as Santana's secretary on top of it.

Santana nods and picks up the phone. "Lopez," she groans.

"Hello to you, too!" comes a familiar yet crackly voice over the phone. Santana smiles despite herself and stretches.

"Good morning, Professor Corcoran," she says softly. "I'm incredibly busy and important so what can I do for you this morning?"

"Don't be cute; it doesn't suit you," she chuckles and Santana smirks. "I need a favor."

Santana's smile instantly drops. It's been a few weeks since they caught up or emailed. She assumes that's why Shelby's ringing her. Her teacher turned mentor turned friend still worries about her, even after ten years and too much success.

"No," she says.

Shelby splutters. "You didn't even give me a chance."

Santana laughs and shakes her head. She knows she's meant to be grateful and willing to do whatever she can to help a person who's helped her so much – who got here where she is now, if she's honest – but, really, there's no way. No way. Not after what happened last time.

"No," she says again.

Shelby sighs. "I promise it won't be like the last time," she assures. "She won't be like the last one."

"The one who set the damn copy room _on fire, _you mean?"

"She's better," Shelby intones in that way that made Santana believe all these things when she was a lot younger, sure in a way that always manages to widen her mind just a little bit more. "She's only a junior but she's a little lost and she just needs somewhere to go for the summer so her dad doesn't yell at her."

Santana sighs and shakes her head. She's too tired to argue, too busy to care. She shakes her head and looks through the window into chaos outside. Quinn juggles papers and two phones and looks like she might blackout at any second.

Santana rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

"Just... get her on the first plane out here."

/

"What's your name?" she says a day later.

She's signing off on four articles that are going to print in an hour, a press release, discussing a possible appearance at a benefit for a charity while they're in South Carolina next week and she really doesn't have time to do this, but she called the damn girl here.

"Um... Sugar," she says nervously.

It's the insecurity in her voice, the fact that she sounds completely unsure of her own name that has Santana pausing and looking at her before glancing at Quinn.

Her finger is nudging her glasses down her nose, so she can look at her over the top of them, before she even realizes she's doing it. The girl flinches, intimidated. Santana relishes it for half a second because it never gets boring.

"No, really..." she says. "What's your name?"

The girl looks even more unsure as she says "Sugar" again.

Santana's eyes widen at her and she throws down her pen. "God. Okay. Tell me," she says lowly. "Are you, or have you ever been, a stripper?"

The girl takes an unsure step away from the desk at the question, brow furrowing in confusion as she shrinks into herself. "Um... no?"

Santana glances at Quinn again. She looks like she's about four seconds away from cracking her shit up. "Listen, if you're a stripper or... I don't know what they're calling it these days," she waggles her fingers offhandedly. "An _exotic dancer, _or whatever, I don't need it in my campaign. So, if you'd rather be throwing your thong at old men for a dollar, you can leave because I don't need that kind of scandal."

The girl looks at Quinn and her wide eyes beg her to say this is a joke, that she's kidding. Quinn is too busy laughing at Santana, at what's going on around her. Santana cracks a smile and shakes her head despite herself.

The girl just... doesn't get it.

"My name's Sugar," she repeats. "Sugar Motta."

Santana laughs again and sighs. She rolls her eyes, giving up because she _really _ doesn't have time for this. "Can you make coffee?" she asks instead.

Sugar smiles. "My dad's the CEO of Mocha Motta, one of the largest coffee chains in the country," she nods. "I can get all the free coffee I want."

Quinn stops laughing instantly and gasps. Santana turns to her with a grin at the thought of non-stop, good coffee.

"Excellent," she chuckles with a nod of her head.

All she has to do is keep her out of the copy room.

/

She doesn't know if it's because of Sugar's constant supply of coffee or the fact that the girl doesn't have to look before she diverts a call, but things instantly start running smoother the minute she gets into the office. The girl must be on roller skates because she never damn sits down but always ends up doing everything as she's told.

"Whittier's debate is on C-Span in five minutes, Miss Lopez," she reminds her and Santana nods, reaching for the remote that Sugar already has in her hand, pointed to the TV. "Here's your coffee," she says dropping it in the place of the empty cup on her desk that she rushes out of the room.

Quinn wanders in after as she leaves and shakes her head. "Tell me she's a robot," Quinn says. "Tell me Shelby sent you a robot. I could believe it."

Santana shakes her head and glances at the TV to watch Whittier hand Hudson his ass.

She's about to respond to Quinn when something catches her eye: blond hair, blue eyes, a smile that had made her knees go week. Her face falls and she looks as the camera cuts away too quickly for the face to register.

She gets up, moving closer to see if she sees again, but Whittier's out on the stand early as usual and Hudson is late.

"What's wrong?" Quinn asks when her hand presses to the TV.

_It couldn't be_, she thinks but panics at what it could possibly mean. Was she put there in that hotel? Did she see? Is she following them? Is she a reporter?

Panic and rage mixes together to form nothing but irrationality.

"Nothing," she shakes her head. "Nothing, just... nothing."

/

It was always going to be a hard week. She leans against his desk as he paces back and forth across room, reading the notes she'd given him.

"It's... don't worry about it," she says softly. "Just... say what's written there, don't deviate from it and you won't have any problems."

"Santana, I'm not so sure about this..." he says lowly. "This is aggressive and..."

"It's a stance and it's more than you've had on the issue since you started this campaign," she exasperates. They've been here for two hours and there's more to done if he would just grab hold of this. "They've been riding your ass about this for months... we've refused to talk about it from the beginning and this is our chance to make a statement. This could work well in our favor."

"Yeah," Will says, pausing in his pacing. "Or it could come back and bite me on the ass ruining the campaign."

She stands up and shakes her head. "People will appreciate a person who fights for what they believe in over a flakey asshole who passes the buck to everyone else, letting them decide what he believes. A leader leads and that's what you need to do. Even the pro-lifers can get on board with this, Will, it's..."

"Santana..."

She steps towards her. "We talked about this, okay? What don't you _get_?" Her voice raised, he has no choice but to look at her. "There was a little girl and she was violated and instead of protecting her and making sure she got every single bit of support she needed, some fucking hick judge abused the courts because he didn't agree with it. Don't you see that?" She looks at him emphatically and shakes her head. "You protect the girl, Will." She shakes her head. "In this case, we protect the girl because that's all we should do, the _only_ thing."

He shakes his head and sets down the paper. "I don't..."

"You protect the girl," Will she says again. "That should have been the judge's job and now it's the Supreme Court's job and you have a voice." She picks up the paper and shoves it at his chest. "You wanna protect the people? Do it."

/

_The Supreme Court Justices are being urged to come to a verdict this week on the case of Bow vs Mississippi. This controversial yet groundbreaking case, of a seventeen year-old girl – raped on her way home in Mississippi – has made history in the way that it has highlighted the inconsistencies of law when it comes to abortion. After the girl's father refused permission for an abortion in accordance with Mississippi state law – which says that both parents need give their consent before an abortion can be performed – the most controversial aspect of the case is Mississippi Judge Paul Sturgeon's reluctance to form a decision on the case when it was taken to court to gain an exception from this rule. This sent the case to the Mississippi Supreme Court, __which upheld the judge's decision, after which the case was appealed to the Supreme Court here in Washington._

_That the case has come this far and that an exception hasn't been granted sooner has caused an uproar amongst almost all Pro-Choice organizations. They're calling on the Supreme Court to strike down the states' parental consent laws, the inconsistent application of which, they argue has prevented this unnamed girl from exercising her right to choose. _

_And as primary season approaches, these organizations have also found it fit to urge current Democratic presidential candidates their stances on this issue and what they would change. Our correspondent caught up with leading Democratic candidate, Governor William Schuester after a speech in Iowa today to ask his opinion on this groundbreaking case. Here's what he said:_

"_Both in Congress and as Governor of Ohio, I have always supported a woman's right to choose. It is the Supreme Court's role to determine how states can place restrictions on this fundamental and deeply cherished right of American citizens." _

She's fuming as they drive the whole way back to hotel, their car trailing behind Will's. Quinn and Puck hold her on either side as she fumes, breath uneasy and her limbs shaking with rage. She can hear Quinn urging her to stay calm on one side and Puck telling her Will's a pussy on the other.

She storms after him as he heads back to the Presidential suite of the hotel and slams the bedroom door closed after he's walked inside

"What the _hell _was that?" she screams. "You had one thing to do, _one _thing, and you could have been brilliant. One _fucking _thing and you couldn't do that. You couldn't show that you're willing to protect one damn citizen in this country other than yourself! What the _fuck_, Will?"

He rounds on her, face frustrated and angry. His finger points threateningly in her face and she's so angry it doesn't scare her. She thinks she could grab it and break it if she tried but she knows it wouldn't even be close to enough.

"Listen," he says, voice low, almost a whisper so that no one can hear. "Not all of us are idealistic little shits like you who want to change the world. This is my campaign and I'll say what I believe, not what someone tells me to. That's what you said, wasn't it? To speak for myself. Well, I did so you can't fault me for that. I will not be a puppet for the agenda you have for this country. You think I'm selfish... well, look in the mirror."

Her eyes are watering as she shakes her head at him in disbelief. She won't cry; that just means she'll become everything he expects her to be.

Instead, she storms out. She's better than this.

/

Quinn looks at her and asks everyone to leave her alone. She sits at the hotel bar, reading the schedule for the next two weeks until she's got it memorized, and knocking back more whiskey than she can handle until she forgets what he said.

She sits in silence and waits for the apology, waits for the time when he comes to her and tells her she's right. Except, she's not so sure it'll happen this time. She sees the news reports and the articles Quinn shows her and knows that his quote is making the rounds. They call it safe, but his reputation is intact as the country continues to debate and argue the topic.

She tells herself that she's not wrong, she just wanted him to be better, that he could have been better and wasn't brave enough to try.

He goes to a fundraiser in Connecticut the next day and she shakes her head, tells Puck and Quinn to deal with the press, while she sits at the desk in her hotel room and tries to figure out what her next move is. She didn't realize she'd be in opposition with her own candidate as well as the others, to try and make this country a better place.

/

She's on her balcony at three in the morning when they find her. They look confused and Santana sighs, lips pursing around the end of her cigarette as she drags much-needed nicotine into her lungs.

"Santana..." Quinn says softly. "Come... come take a look at this."

She nods her head to let them know that she'll be in shortly and smokes the rest of her cigarette slowly before going inside. They're in the other suite, the one filled with their computers and TVs and with paper covering every surface. Puck's assistant, Lauren, sits on the couch with her computer on her lap. The TV plays in front of them as they all surround it.

"What is it?" she says, walking towards them, kicking off her heels and pulling the tails of her shirt from her skirt.

Lauren looks at her as the others all stare at the screen. A news report is playing and they're all enthralled by what it's telling them. All Santana cares about is getting a beer from the mini bar and maybe getting drunk again like last night so she can forget the mess that's going on around her.

"It was posted online five hours ago and it's already making the rounds," Lauren tells her and she frowns instantly. "Everybody's picked it up. It's already on C-Span."

She moves closer, pushing Mike and Puck out of the way until she can see what they're looking at her. Her heart instantly plummets and her eyes go wide as she sees that face, large as anything, on the screen. Her voice fails her, just as it had done outside that damn motel room and she shakes her head as the woman talks on screen.

She looks familiar now, with her hair pinned up and wearing her conservative yet stylish black dress. Her smile nags a reminder at the back of her head now that it's lined with red lipstick. The only tell-tale sign that she's the same woman is the softness of her voice and the way her hand taps against the podium.

She doesn't know who this woman is but she feels like she should, or like she wants to.

It's then that she hears what the woman is saying.

"..._it is inhumanely cruel and totally unacceptable to have used her like that for a political agenda, that this girl, this young woman, has been exploited and violated and attacked in every way a human being can be._"

Her brow narrows and her words finds her. She looks at Lauren and shakes her head. "What is this?" she demands. "What's going on?"

Quinn steps up behind her. "It's... she's some Congresswoman and activist called on by a women's organization to talk about abortion," she explains. "Obviously, they had to talk about Bow vs Mississippi."

"The Women's Reproductive Health Network?" Santana asks. Her eyes seek out Sugar, who practically has her call logs and her schedule memorized, to ask her something. "Didn't we turn that down? Isn't this... isn't this a campaign thing?"

Sugar nods and Quinn hums, deep in thought. "They think she's gonna announce her intention to run," she nods at the TV. "Apparently, she's been making appearances for the past couple of weeks."

"She was in Des Moines," Santana says, breathlessly. She hates herself for how much she still cares about Will winning even though he's a complete asshole. "She was at the motel we found him at, three damn rooms down the hall."

Quinn leans forward to get a closer look at her on the TV and her eyes widen too. "Oh my god, you're right..."

"We're fucking screwed," Puck shakes his head. "This bitch is hot and she's got shit against us."

"Will you shut up?" Lauren spits. "I'm trying to listen."

"_As we move towards the primary season..._" the woman says with ease and grace and irrevocable confidence in the words she speaks. "...w_e have to think about what voice we want for the Democratic Party, whether we've chosen someone who won't in any way, at any time, or in any circumstance, allow violence to be done towards women, towards anyone._" Santana gulps as the woman speaks. She feels the other's eyes on her, staring at her as she listens to this woman say everything she'd wanted Will to say, without so much as a flinch of concern to what might happen to her or what anyone might say to refute it. Her head shakes emphatically at the audience in front of her and Santana feels drawn and repelled to the honesty in her eyes at the same time."_I don't think there's a more important question being put before the American people right now..._"

The room stays silent for long moments and they watch as the video cuts away to other people who have talked about the subject of abortion in the past weeks. Santana waits until Will's video from the night before plays, his weak comments nothing compared to the woman's, before she looks away from the TV. For once, she can't handle knowing how right she is.

"Who the hell is this woman?" Puck says turning from the TV to look at them with panic. "She looks like she's twenty! Why are they saying she wants to run for damn president!"

"She's thirty-two," Lauren says, bored.

He scoffs. "That's still too young," he shakes his head. "Thirty-five. Those are the rules, right?"

Quinn shakes her head. "Thirty," she says. "They added an amendment about a year ago but it barely got any news coverage. No one thought that anyone that young would actually try and run for President."

They all look around at each other. Puck shakes his head and holds out his arms in a shrug.

"Then who the hell is she?"

Santana sees Lauren open her mouth to tell them but Santana's brain kicks in and she's speaking before she can make the sounds leave her mouth. She remembers nights watching old C-Span senate videos to make sure she was up to date, impressive speeches and that damn smile.

She knows exactly who she is.

"Pierce," she says, a grunt of disbelief. "She's Representative Brittany S. Pierce of New York."


	2. The Pierce Situation

Part Two

The Pierce Situation

_July 17, 2015_

_Bristol, CT_

There's a moment of silence before—

"I want to know everything by the time I get back."

Five sets of eyes snap to her in panic and she doesn't look into any of them for fear of what she might find staring back at her. She feels her heart begin to speed up, her skin prickle with worry, and she doesn't fail to notice how all of them look at her like she's about to explode, like she's a bomb ready to go off.

And maybe she is but, rather than thinking about anything that might make that true, she just re-tucks her shirt back into the waistband of her skirt and grabs her jacket from where Sugar knowingly hands it to her.

"Well?!" she shouts when she's slipped her feet back into her heels and they're all still staring at her. "What are you fucking waiting for?! Get to work!"

They don't argue, don't question, and just get to work.

She just leaves, hoping that no one follows her.

/

When she steps out of the lobby and straight into a heavy shower of rain, it's like a bucket of water has been thrown atop her.

"Fuck..." she shouts. "Fuck, fuck, fuck... _fuck!_"

Her feet shift awkwardly, not sure where to stand as she feels the rain soak through her jacket and begin turning her shirt translucent.

"God-fucking-dammit!" She hisses and her hands go to her face to grab at her glasses when she can barely see through them any more. "Are you fucking kidding me?!" she asks no one in particular. "Are you fucking kidding me?! Fuck!"

A million things run through her head—a million things from wondering what this bitch has on them to bright blue eyes that were too earnest and unsettled her more than she knew anything could.

She should have known. She should have seen it coming and now she feels something deep and overwhelming in her gut because she didn't.

"Lopez!" someone shouts from behind her. She scoffs when she recognizes the voice and begins to walk away from the hotel. "Jesus, Lopez! Wait!"

A hand grabs at her shoulder and she spins around to push it away but can't quite get there before it grips at her elbow as another tugs at her waist. She struggles but he's too strong and his eyes are too worried and concerned. Her arms wriggle until she can get them between their bodies and she shoves him hard in the shoulders until he almost falls backward.

"Don't touch me Puckerman!" she warns breathlessly when he attempts to grab her again. "Do _not _fucking touch me!"

He looks at her and, with a scoff, he raises his hands until they're defensively held at either side of his head. "I'm just checking if you're okay," he says quietly, almost disappointed. He tries to reach for her waist again but she shoves him away, hard and square in the middle of the chest.

"Don't. _Don't_," she warns darkly before she lets out a bitter laugh. "God, what do you think this is, Puckerman?! I don't need you to come check on me. I don't need you to make sure I'm okay. Just because I fucked you a couple of times doesn't mean you're my damn boyfriend! I'm your fucking _boss_ and I need you to fucking do your job—"

"What the hell are you doing?!" another voice hisses. "You're in the middle of the street and it's nearly four in the morning!"

Santana turns away when Quinn steps closer to them, umbrella in hand and an irritated expression adorning her face. She wipes her hand across her cheek and takes a couple of steps back to get away from them. They both look at her and she shakes her head.

"I asked for one thing..." she mutters as she slips her glasses back up her nose, putting the persona back in place. "I want everyone up and in the room by the time I get back," she tells them. "I want everyone up and I don't want anyone to follow me."

"Santana..." Quinn interrupts and Santana stops her with a glare that cuts through her.

"Everyone, Quinn," she warns.

Quinn shakes her head and chuckles mirthlessly. "I'll give you fifteen minutes," she says and Santana just looks at her before nodding.

/

She goes up to the roof of the hotel and smokes the rest of her packet of cigarettes before she comes back down to the room. Quinn is pacing, waiting for her and she walks straight past her to where the most relevant members of their staff are working.

"What have you got?" she asks once she's bee-lined for the analysts. She clicks her fingers when they take too long to give her what she wants and they shove it to her so that she can check it once, twice, three times, just to make sure. Quinn steps up to her a second later and she shakes her head as she keeps checking. "I thought I said I wanted everyone up—Lauren!"

Lauren stops in her tracks and turns around reluctantly. "Yes, Boss?"

"What do we know?" she asks in a mumble, taking more data that the two nerdy guys hand to her.

Lauren gives her an indifferent shrug. "Not a lot," she admits.

Santana laughs bitterly because she only agreed to Puck bringing Lauren along for the ride because she couldn't not when she witnessed her dry, no-bullshit attitude. Except, now, that dry, no-bullshit attitude is _really _not something she can be dealing with, right now.

"So let's try and fucking learn something then, huh?" she says before shoving the new pages in Lauren's chest. "I want to know her fucking bra size by the time the sun comes up. You hear me?"

Lauren rolls her eyes but still gives her an amused "sure thing, Boss," in response.

/

"You're worried."

"Fuck off."

"You are."

"Fuck. Off."

Quinn chuckles mirthlessly and Santana resists the urge to throw something, or get up and push her off the arm of the couch so that she lands flat on her ass. She moves around her bedroom-come-office, looking through paperwork, not even sure what she's looking for, while Quinn just stares at her knowingly the whole time. It's like she's waiting for Santana to do something. Sometimes Santana feels like Quinn thinks she knows her better than she knows herself and she fucking hates it.

She _knows_ it isn't true.

"What are you thinking?" Quinn asks her quietly.

Santana straightens her back and moves her hands to her rest on her hips as she stares out of the window and laughs. "How did we not notice?" she asks the universe more than she asks Quinn. "How did we not get to him quicker? Who fucking knows what she was doing in that hotel room or why she was there, ya know? What does she have on us? What'll happen now? That's what I'm fucking thinking."

Quinn breathes out. "It'll be fine."

Santana laughs, her chuckle dripping with terrified sarcasm. All this time and it ends because of some blond, newbie congresswoman from New York. All this work and it's over because of some ridiculous idealistic woman she failed to recognize. It's the worst feeling in the world.

"Do you really think that?" she asks Quinn, not really meaning to.

Quinn blinks at the question. Santana sees it in the reflection in the window. "Honestly?" she asks. "No, I don't. Not at first. But I'm not giving up yet. Not until we know everything. There's still a chance."

Santana nods in agreement and swallows, nervous for what she's about to ask, guilty almost. "About that..." she says, moving to sit down at her chair. She drops down into it and rests her knuckles under her chin as she rests her elbow on the arm. "I want to call Holliday."

Quinn's expression changes instantly, like someone's turned her bitch switch on. Her head begins to shake but Santana doesn't give her a chance to say no. Not yet anyway.

"You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an emergency," she argues. "You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was necessary."

"No," Quinn says and it's blunt and quick. It almost hurts. "No."

"Quinn... come on..."

"No," she says more adamantly. "It's not happening. There was one condition for my involvement in this campaign and that was that the life I left behind didn't get affected in any way—"

"It won't!"

"It _will_," Quinn laughs softly. "How will you calling my boss for tip-offs not be affecting my career?! What if this all goes wrong, Santana? What if we don't even get to the general election?" Santana looks away because she doesn't even want to think about that. "If I go back, I don't want to have to owe Holly Holliday anything, Santana. I want to be able to go back there after all this and have a clean slate..."

"Quinn..." Santana says softly and it's as close to begging as she'll get. "Come on... Just this once."

Quinn shakes her head. There's a pause and she shrugs. "You said that last time," she reminds her softly. "And the time before that."

"Then what's one more time?" Santana asks in exasperation. "And this time I really need it, Quinn... I really need this."

Quinn looks at her and there must be something about Santana's expression that makes something change within Quinn. She softens and her shoulders drop a little.

Santana swallows and hopes she doesn't have to wait long.

There's really no time to waste.

/

At first, she thinks that no one's going to pick up but then—

"Jesus Christ, whoever the hell you are, you have a damn nerve calling me at six am..."

"Sorry, Holly..." Quinn mumbles towards the speakerphone. "But we couldn't wait."

There's a quick pause but, strangely, there's a laugh after that. "Well if it isn't Quinn Fabray..." she says jovially. "And Lopez, I assume considering the circumstances. I've been waiting for your call."

Quinn shoots her a look and she looks away. She knows that this is going to be worth it because she knows that Holly Holliday knows everything. It's like she sold her soul to the devil or the mob and knows everything about everything before anyone else. She _knows_ that Holly has the information they need to make sure that nothing can ruin this campaign.

"What can you tell us about Brittany S. Pierce being in Des Moines about ten days ago?" Quinn asks as quickly as she can when Santana doesn't.

Strangely, Holly pauses. "Des Moines?"

"Yeah, just after the Fourth of July weekend..."

There's a sound of rustling and footsteps before Santana's sure she hears the sounds of a computer being turned on. "Your boy had a town hall meeting there that day, didn't he?"

Quinn looks at her with a look she can't quite discern but Santana's already flicking back through the scheduling book she keeps with her, just in case technology fails her. Sure enough, she finds the information she needs there and gives Quinn a nod that she affirms to Holly.

"Well, Pierce has been getting a feel for the campaign for the last couple of weeks, so she was probably checking things out there," Holly says, matter-of-fact, and leaves it at that.

Santana leans forward in her chair. "What do you mean?"

When Holly laughs, all-knowing and wise, Santana feels like everything's cracking around her.

"Lopez," she says softly. "What do you know about Wilma Ryan?"

Santana's eyes close and she sighs, knowing what comes next.

/

The first thing she does when she gets back to the room is check the clock. It's barely seven am and it feels wrong for everything to be ruined so early in the day.

"What's wrong?" Puck asks as he watches her fall back into her chair and remove her glasses. "Where's Quinn?"

She pinches at the bridge of her nose and inhales deeply. "She's making some calls."

Puck's eyes narrow and he moves closer. Santana pushes back on her chair so that she moves away from him a little. "Is something wrong?"

She can feel the first signs of a headache behind her eyes, burying itself behind her nose and into her cheeks. She doesn't answer him straight away and just sits there, silently.

"Lopez..." Puck laughs nervously. "What's the problem? What did Holliday say?"

When she still doesn't say anything, the laughing stops and the smile falls from his face. He tucks his lips into his mouth for a second before she hears him clear his throat.

"Is it bad?" he asks and she can feel the eyes and ears of everyone around them on her.

She takes in a deep breath.

"She's running," she tells them quickly.

Puck laughs at that when she doesn't say anything else for a few moment moments afterward. "So?" he snorts. "It's not like she'll get very far."

Santana shifts and shakes her head at the words, barely quick enough for anyone to notice. Puck narrows his gaze. Santana swallows.

"Wilma Ryan has asked her to run in her husband's memory," she informs him. "Apparently they were friends and she feels that there's no candidate remaining in the race that fully represents the ideals that her husband wanted for this country, so she's asked her to run."

Puck scoffs and shakes his head even as Santana sees Mike's face falling as he turns away. Puck's so clueless sometimes she seriously has to stop and remember why she hired him in the first place. "And what's that got to do with anything?" he asks, looking around the room. "He's just some dead guys wife!"

Santana rolls her eyes and lets her head fall back. "'Some dead guy's wife'," she repeats. "Some dead guy's wife that just so happens to be the daughter of Patrick D. Thompson, Chairman of the Democratic National Committee."

Puck's face falls in understanding in an instant. Santana smiles part in satisfaction, part in sarcastic disbelief. Her eyebrows raise bitterly and she nods at him.

"She is definitely _some _dead guy's wife, huh?"

Puck purses his lips and it doesn't make her feel better.

/

They all go to Santana's room to talk away from the junior staff. Quinn's still there and she sighs as she puts down the phone and looks at them.

"So, basically, we're screwed," she says as they all sit down.

Santana doesn't react, just swallows and pushes her glasses up her nose.

It's Mike that shakes his head in refusal first. "How do we even know that?" He asks. "Not to be rude, Quinn, but how can we even trust that this information is true. It's from a journalist and, sure, she's the Executive Editor of _The Washington Post, _but couldn't her information be false? It could end up going nowhere... this Pierce woman could change her mind!"

Santana's eyes flick to Quinn's and find them looking at Mike sadly. "Her source is Cooper Anderson, the Brooklyn Borough President. He was asked to join her staff but he refused. He gave her the name of his brother and apparently he's now Pierce's new head speechwriter. It's not false information."

The room goes silent. They all look to Santana but she remains busying herself around the room, avoiding their eyes.

For one of the few times in her life, she doesn't know what to do and she can't stand it.

/

They make a plan.

It's not their best plan—if deciding to not do anything for now is worth being called a plan—but it's all they have right now.

They can't even be sure that anything will come of this. Mike's right; she could change her mind and drop out before she even gathers momentum.

She instructs Lauren and her team to monitor Pierce and keep searching for everything on her, just in case they have to counter-blackmail her like Santana guesses they might have to.

She feels the anger, that she thought was dissipating, turning into a deeper worry, a stronger concern and she stands at the back of Will's first town hall meeting of the day, staring into space, wondering if it's worth telling him about his potential competition.

"What's wrong, kid?" he mutters when he leaves the stage to head out. His eyes narrow in barely-there concern and she snaps her attention to him instantly, smiling as much as she can.

"Nothing," she nods, letting her gut decide for her. "Nothing at all."

/

It's not until later that day, when they're settled into another crappy hotel in Manchester, NH, that she notices there's this feeling in her gut.

She wants to ignore it, but she can't.

She tells herself that it's hunger or it's sleep deprivation or indigestion from the crappy burrito Puck got her for dinner, but she knows it isn't. She knows it isn't physical, or probably even really there, but she can feel it, nagging at her knowingly like only a few things have done before.

That makes her feel worse because if this ends up like those things did then her world is going to be turned upside down, inside out, and she won't even see it coming. It'll be like an earthquake without tremors; a cloudless blue-skied hurricane.

She'll be a wreck and she won't even know how it happened.

She won't even be able to question it.

/

The clock on her newest hotel desk says 2:47am when Mike knocks on her door and lets himself in.

"Santana, can I just get you to check over this speech?" he asks softly, not even looking up.

Santana gulps at his presence and narrows her eyes, wondering. His eyes are on the paper in front of him, the pen in his hand is still making corrections, even as he asks her to check it over. She stands without thinking and moves around the desk until she can push the second chair out of the way. He doesn't look up when she kicks off her shoes and pushes her pantyhose down her legs. He's talking away about policy and how he thinks their position on education still needs a little work, and doesn't look up until she hasn't answered the question because she didn't even listen to it, too busy unbuttoning her shirt.

His eyes bug out of his head like this is the first time he's come into her room in the middle of the night and she's asked this of him. She sees him gulp just seconds before she takes off her glasses and then shimmies out of her underwear.

"Santana..." he mutters but she cuts through him, her hands hiking her skirt around her bare hips.

She shoots him a look and he takes a step forward. "I need you to fuck me," she whispers.

He nods as his hands go to his belt buckle and she smiles in relief as she bends over her desk and presses her palms flat to the papers that litter it.

/

When he slips deep inside of her, she sighs because she feels everything disappear from her head, just like she wanted it to.

/

He stares at her, after. There's a look in his eye and she doesn't want to figure out what it means and is sure that he probably doesn't know what it is either. She knows, deep down, that it'll mean bad things, regardless.

"You should go," she says as she's tucking her shirt back into the waistband of her repositioned skirt. He narrows his eyes as he refastens the buttons on his own and tries a smile.

"I was thinking I could crash here," he mumbles. "I was thinking maybe we could call room service and—"

She frowns and tries not to scoff. "Don't you have work to be doing, Mr. Chang?" she asks. "You aren't being paid to sit around and eat free steak; you're paid to help the Governor win, so why don't you go do that?" She sits behind her desk and finds the speech he dropped there before he unbuckled his belt. She glances over it. "And it would seem you have a lot of work to do..." she mumbles. "These changes are awful."

She doesn't look up at him but she know that he's just staring at her, trying to figure out what to say next. She doesn't look up at him but grabs some papers from the other side of her desk, glancing at them as she slips her glasses up her nose.

She hears a sigh of frustration before—

"Yes, Ms. Lopez."

/

It's a slow day.

The only thing on the schedule all day is a non-campaign related brunch meeting for Will before a fundraiser that evening. It feels nice to be back in her office but being back at base reminds her of all the things she has to do. She spends all day organizing herself, and trying to keep her mind straight, and it works until Quinn steps up to her door around 3pm and taps on the frame.

"The cars are here," she says and Santana frowns, shaking her head.

"I'm not going," she says as she continues to pin things to the large noticeboard on her wall before jotting things down on the dry-wipe board of equal size beside it. "Too much work to do."

Quinn pauses for a moment before nodding her head. Santana looks away from her and goes back to plotting their next moves while trying not to think about how long it is before blond hair and blue eyes force her to think of another.

"Okay," Quinn nods. "I'll see you in Miami."

Santana nods and turns to watch Quinn leave but something tugs inside of her and she's calling her back before she can realize. Quinn turns back with narrowed eyes and looks at her patiently. Santana clears her throat and recaps her pen, tapping it in her palm.

The action reminds her of someone and she stops the instant that she realizes who that someone is.

"We—we really need to have a meeting, you, Puck and I," she says carefully.

Quinn's frown deepens. "About what?"

"The Pierce situation," she mumbles. "We need to figure out a plan."

Quinn looks shocked, then a little confused, before she nods. Santana knows it isn't a nod of affirmation, but a nod for Santana to continue.

"We should have a more reliable plan of action," she says, attempting to sound sure of herself. "We should have an action for every possible event that could arise. I would do it myself but I'd prefer input from you and Puckerman, first."

Quinn looks at her curiously before nodding. "Sure, of course. I'll see you in Miami."

She leaves and the breath Santana releases after rattles her chest.

/

It isn't until they've all left, and the office is empty except for a few interns whose job it is to man the phones in their absence, that she lets everything crash on top of her all over again.

She starts to feel those feelings again—the ones that make her feel like this woman, this once unknown and irrelevant woman, is going to change everything—and falls into her chair behind her desk to clutch at her chest.

Her nails scratch at her skin and she gulps, reaching forward for her computer, wanting something—anything—to prove to her that she's wrong and that this woman is nothing but a momentary obstacle.

But then she googles her name and finds new videos of her at a rally in South Carolina the day before, hears her words—her sure and reassuring words—and realizes that it isn't true.

/

After the appearance in Miami Beach and after everyone else has wandered off to bed or get drunk, Santana tells Puck and Quinn to meet her in her room.

She rolls her eyes when Quinn brings a bottle of top shelf scotch with her but doesn't argue when she pours three glasses and hands one to her. She takes it and leans back in her chair before kicking off her heels and raising her feet to rest on the desk.

"So, what's the plan?" Quinn asks when none of them have spoken for ten minutes. Santana just swallows the last of her drink before handing Quinn back the glass for another.

When it's cold in her hand, she still doesn't speak.

"I say we do nothing," Puck says around a tired groan. "She could be doing this for anything, you know? She's in the House. This could be her re-election campaign. Maybe she's running for Senate. There's no way—_no way—_she thinks she's running for President."

"Except everyone says she is..." Quinn mutters pointedly.

"A fucking journo from the Washington Post, who got her information from the brother of another journo who says he's going to be on her campaign, says she is," Puck snorts. "I'm calling bullshit. Until I see fucking posters with her face on and the words 'I wanna be president' come from that pretty little mouth, I'm calling bullshit. It would be ridiculous to do anything otherwise."

Quinn shakes her head at him. "It's not that easy, Puck."

"No, probably not, but it's fuckin' stupid." He shakes his head and Santana just sips her scotch and watches them, thinking it over. "It's stupid to start going all proactive on this woman's tight ass when, in a week's time, when she's realized she's not cut out for this shit, she'll drop out. It's stupid to run after someone that has the least likely chance of winning out of anyone. If she thinks she's going to beat us, she's stupid. Even if we weren't in the running, does she really think she can beat Whittier? Hell, even Hudson could beat her. To go after someone who we'll beat is dumb, but to go after a chick who hasn't even announced her intent to run who we'll beat is just fucking stupid." He shrugs. "I say we wait. So what if she has Ryan's wife as a fan? She's a fucking novelty and people will get bored of her eventually."

Santana feels something inside of her loosen. Tight strings that made her feel trapped begin to unravel and allow her to breathe. She smiles inwardly and takes slow, gentle breaths for the first time in days as she waits for them to continue.

"You don't know that," Quinn laughs. "I don't think you get it. Sure, she could drop out but for all you know it could work the other way. She could end up as the damn president and Will Schuester could be left where he is. Or worse, he could end up with the people of Ohio finding out how wholesome his private life really is and he could end up as nothing, all because we didn't do our jobs."

Puck shakes his head. "The odds are on our side, Fabray. Waiting is a risk I'm willing to take."

They both look at Santana and she takes another deep breath, a little more labored again, and thinks it over. She can add to her stress, by acknowledging Pierce as an almost threat, or she can wait and remain blissfully ignorant for a little while longer. She can take more time to understand what's wrong, what she needs to do. It's almost too easy a decision.

"Puckerman's right," she nods softly. "We should keep waiting, keep an eye on her and not say anything. It could bite us on the ass if we do."

Quinn's eyes grow wide, her mouth parting to argue back, and Santana cuts through her before she can.

"No, Quinn," she says, leaving no room for comment. "We remain as we are until we know more," she tells her forcefully. "We say nothing, make no comment.. Not to the press. Not to Will. Are we clear?"

Quinn's eyes glare at her and Santana almost thinks she might argue back. She prepares herself for a battle but then Quinn nods and pushes back from her chair.

"Fine," she concedes. "You're the boss."

/

After five days and no further appearances from Pierce, Santana starts to think that she was maybe over-reacting. They're watching C-SPAN one morning when they catch a glimpse of her—not exactly hard to miss in a crowd of old, graying men and women—sitting quietly towards the back of the house chamber, minding her own business.

Puck turns to her and smiles. Santana can't help but notice a little relief in his eyes.

"Told ya," he whispers and she can't help but smile back at him, even if she still has doubts.

Still, when he wanders into her office later that night, she doesn't deny him when he pours her a scotch and reaches her for the hem of her skirt.

She just turns around before he can kiss her, presses herself to the top of her desk without argument and lets him pull down her panties.

It keeps her mind clear from worry, even if it's only for a little while.

/

"Okay, I want news every hour on the hour. Whittier made an appearance in Concord last night and I want to know what happened minute-by-minute, okay?" Heads bob in understanding, still glued to their computers and Santana doesn't mind, too wrapped up in her own schedule to care. "I also want to see if we can find out what the _hell_ Hudson is doing. How's he recovering after that abysmal performance in Cedar Rapids the other day? I want to know why the hell he hasn't dropped out and gone home yet by noon, okay?"

There's more nodding as she moves along the rows of people at their desks, tapping away at their computers and talking away on phones. Someone hands her some papers as she walks past and she peers at them before scoffing.

"Can we also get some people on the ground in DC? The Governor has a speech there at the end of the week and we always have a shitty turnout. I want people there. Tell them there's free lunch or something... just get them to that damn speech."

People run around after her and the buzz it gave her six months ago isn't really there anymore. None of the buzz she got from all of this six months ago is really there anymore.

"Puck and Mike, I want you to work on the speech for DC," she mumbles as she reaches the conference room near her office. They disappear quickly. "Quinn, I need you to speak to some people that are downstairs in the lobby."

Quinn rolls her eyes but nods and grabs her notebook to leave the room. Santana taps down her list and sighs when she comes to the last thing. She turns to Sugar who takes the schedule when she hands it to her.

"Coffee, Ms. Lopez?" Sugar asks.

Santana nods. "Coffee, Sugar," she agrees. "And my messages."

Sugar smiles and leaves and Santana isn't sure why she's still stood there in the conference room doing nothing a minute later. She doesn't question it, just closes her eyes and sighs until someone clears their throat.

She turns to find Lauren looking back at her.

"What about me, boss?" she asks, bored and indifferent.

Santana turns to her and frowns. "Did you finish finding everything out about Pierce?" she asks.

Lauren's eyes waver behind her glasses. A curious smile tugs at her lips and Santana hates it. "No, but I thought we weren't going ahead with—"

Santana shakes her head. "No, carry on doing that," she cuts through her. "Keep researching her until I tell you to do something else."

When Lauren doesn't say anything, just smirks and stares back at her, Santana finds her irritation grows at lightening speed.

"Do you understand me?" she asks sharply. "Because if you don't like this job I'm sure I can find a hundred other people to do it."

Lauren's smile doesn't even waver. It just quirks a little higher and she gets up from the chair.

"No, boss," she says as she leaves the room. "Anything you want."

/

She's wearing the world's most uncomfortable evening dress, and Will's making awful jokes that everyone's laughing at, when Quinn slides inconspicuously over to her with a strained but knowing face.

She doesn't say anything, just hands Santana a small piece of paper.

_Pierce held a forum in New York_, is all it says but it's enough to drive her insane.

She takes a deep breath and forces a smile onto her face in case anyone's looking at her.

"What else do we know?" she whispers to Quinn.

Quinn moves closer and smiles too. "She was talking about economic policy. Apparently someone from _the New York Times _was there and has put a kick back into the rumors."

"Anything else?"

Quinn laughs awkwardly. "Sources are telling me that she jumped a plane to Missouri straight after."

Santana waves at one of the hosts across the room.

"Fuck," she says as the room erupts into applause.

/

She's fighting with her lighter when Lauren finally wanders into her room. She waits for her to close the door before she speaks.

"You better fucking have something good for me, Zizes, I swear to God," she mumbles as she groans and throws the lighter onto the bed, searching around for an alternative. "Tell me that she was a fucking prostitute in a past life or she's evaded her taxes three years in a row... tell me she was having an affair with Bryan Ryan. Tell me that there's fucking_ something_ that will get this bitch the fuck out of my hair."

Lauren doesn't say anything; she just waits for Santana to calm down, for her to find the matches in one of her bags and breathe deep lungfuls of nicotine into her chest.

"So far, what I've found is completely squeaky clean..." Lauren starts and it earns her a glare that Santana's willing to bet could kill a small animal. "But it's not what I _have _found," she goes on. "It's what I _haven't _found..."

Santana's eyes narrow. "Go on..."

Lauren shrugs. "There's big ol' blocks of this bitch's life where I can literally find _nothing _on her. She disappears off the edge of the planet and then reappears suddenly. Her childhood is pretty much non-existent. She doesn't have any school records until high school." Lauren shrugs. "It's like she chooses when she wants to exist."

Santana flops down into her chair. "That's great but it's not good enough to _end _her, is it?"

Lauren chuckles mirthlessly. It's almost weird, condescending. "End _what_?" she says. "So she made an appearance in New York. It's where she's freaking from. It could mean anything. So she talked about the economy... ours is still down the pan. What about it? Stop worrying about things you really don't need to worry about and start worrying about things that you do, like how shitty Schuester's jokes are. That's a real problem."

With that, Lauren leaves.

Her words resonate, but it's still not good enough.

/

Pierce makes three appearances in Jefferson City, Missouri the next day.

Santana finds out on a post-it, quickly stuck to her computer by Puck before he swiftly leaves the room.

When everyone leaves for the town hall meeting in Cedar Rapids, Santana pulls Lauren aside and, as menacingly and warningly as she can, jabs her finger into her chest.

"Find out _everything _you can," she demands, voice low. "_Everything_, Zizes. I don't care what you do or how you do it. I just want you to find out everything that you can about this bitch before she ruins _my _campaign."

Lauren raises her eyebrows and Santana jabs her again, harder this time.

"I mean it, Lauren," she warns. "Find something on this woman or that's it. You're out."

Her seriousness sinks in because in a second, Lauren's face falls and she nods.

"Whatever you say, boss."

/

Quinn's waiting for her by the door. She grabs her arm and pulls her back inside of the hotel.

"You need to tell Schue," she says softly. "Before he's blindsided."

Santana tugs her arm away and glares at her.

"Not now, Quinn," she spits before she strides over to the car, slamming the door as she gets in.

/

The turn-out in DC is better than previous times Will's been there. The venue is filled with people and Santana can barely see him from her usual place at the back of the room.

Not that it matters. She's barely paying attention.

She's too busy wondering where Pierce will be today. First Jefferson City, then Kansas City yesterday... Instead of paying attention to Will, she makes mental lists of all the cities in Missouri that Pierce could go to, where she would have the most impact. There's over thirty on her list before Puck nudges her and she's aware that people are applauding.

She makes her exit before everyone else, smiles at Will, and tells him he did great.

Quinn grabs her arm as they're getting in the car and Santana's ready to bite out another warning but when she sees Quinn's face she stops.

"Oklahoma," she says softly. "She's in Oklahoma."

/

It's driving her crazy.

Her mind is on a constant loop of wondering what her next move is, what she's going to talk about and when the inevitable moment will be that she says the words that Santana's dreading.

She watches videos of Pierce and hates herself when she starts getting drawn into her words, her empathy and compassion. She hates how conflicted she is, how hard her heart beats for reasons she knows isn't the panic she wants it to be. She feels something bubbling inside of her and wishes, with all her being, that it was the need to vomit instead of what it really is.

It's been twelve years and she still—

She swallows and she's out into the hall before she can think anything else.

Her knuckles sting as she raps on the door, doesn't even feel guilty when Puck opens the door, half-asleep and in nothing but his boxers.

She uses it to her advantage and pushes him back into the room, closing the door behind them. Neither of them say anything but Santana can feel Puck looking at her with a confused expression on his face as she forces him down on the bed. He blinks at her sleepily when she forces his boxers down his legs and watches her in the darkness as sheds herself of her clothing.

Her hand moves over him a few times, slipping on a condom and stroking him until he's ready. His eyes roll back in the half-light of the room and she raises up on her knees before lowering herself onto him heavily, adamant to forget.

His hands instantly reach for her hips and his fingertips dig into her skin. She breathes out heavily and squeezes her eyes closed, concentrating. She moves steadily, at a pace that clears her head and keeps her panting for breath, until Puck moves beneath her, forcing away her rhythm.

He sits up and she hears him laugh a split second before she feels his mouth, pressing to one of her breasts and sliding steadily upwards.

It makes her panic and brings her back to the present, makes her remember everything until she's squirming away and pushing at his shoulders.

"C'mon," he says lowly, his hips moving up into her.

Her vision blurs with an image of blond and blue and she shakes her head. "Don't," she warns. His hands slide up her sides, squeeze at her breasts and she can't take it. She peels his hands away and moves against him more quickly. "Like this. Harder."

He does as he's told, but only for a minute or two, before she feels his lips wrap around a nipple. She pushes him back until he's flat to the bed but he's adamant, his hands roaming her torso. She closes her eyes and tries to forget him but all it does it remind her of blond and blue again. She tries to fight that away just as quickly but all it does is remind her that Puckerman has one hand on her tits and the other rubbing her where she needs it.

She forces that away but her mind just reverts back to blonde hair and blue eyes and she's stuck, steam-rolling towards climax so quickly that her body can't do anything but what it's already doing. Her imagination shows her images she doesn't want to think about, of blue eyes, dark and heavy and beneath her, of gentler hands.

She comes, too quick and too fast. It's over too soon and she groans in frustration as she pushes off of him and reaches for her clothes.

"Fuck you, Puck," she says before she storms out of the room.

/

New Orleans

Simi Valley

Los Angeles

Pierce's appearances pick up speed, gain momentum and Santana waits until the end of each day to breathe another sigh of relief that she still hasn't declared her candidacy yet.

That's until she's sitting at the back of a forum in Columbus when she receives a text from a number she doesn't recognize.

_Call me at 9:30 EST tonight_, it says._ I have some information for you. HH. _

It takes fifteen minutes before Santana starts breathing right again.

/

She calls Holliday the minute that the clock changes from 9:29 to 9:30.

"Lopez?"

"Yeah, what do you have?" she says and hates that her voice is shaking.

"Anderson called me," Holliday says. "Pierce is giving a speech in New York the day after tomorrow. She's announcing."

Santana's breath rushes from her. She doesn't feel angry or annoyed or anything. There's this deep, heavy part of her that lifts in relief.

"Okay," she says. "Thanks."

Holliday seems taken aback. "No problem," she says and then the line cuts off.

/

She calls a meeting instantly.

Puck and Quinn look at her in confusion and she stands there in front of them, awkwardly looking at the floor.

"We have thirty six hours, I guess..." she mumbles. "Thirty-six hours until Pierce announces her campaign."

When Puck doesn't shout in anger and Quinn doesn't offer her a pointed _I-told-you-so_, it makes it worse.

"Who—who's gonna tell Will?" Puck asks and Santana's kind of glad that it wasn't Quinn who asked that.

"I will," she sniffs, still looking at the floor. "It's my fault he's gone this long without knowing in the first place."

Quinn gives her a look that she can't read and she just shrugs before she can say anything.

"We'll tell him together," Quinn says softly and Santana spends a moment being grateful for her best friend

/

They ask for a meeting the next morning and Will invites him to join him for breakfast.

"Governor, there's something we need to tell you," Santana says as he hands Quinn a plate.

"Oh yeah?" he asks handing her a plate of her own. "You want pancakes?"

She shakes her head. "I'm fine," she says. "But I really need to tell you something, okay?" He nods, even as he's piling up his plate. "There's a woman—"

His eyes dart up, wide and concerned. "What woman?" he demands.

Santana tries to ignore the reaction and carries on. "A Congresswoman," she tells him. "From New York." His face falls in relief and he nods quickly. "She's going to announce that she's running for President tomorrow at a speech in New York City. Her name is Brittany S. Pierce. We've known about her for a couple of weeks. We should have warned you so you could be prepared."

Will looks between them both before frowning. He starts to eat and Santana starts to worry that she's about to get fired or something because of how quiet he's being. It's weird, too weird and awkward and she wishes he would just do what he has to do.

"A _woman_?" he asks and the tone of his voice makes her stop, her face falling with a frown. "From New York?" He nods to himself and almost seems amused. "Well, you seem to be concerned, so I'm gonna say that you do what you have to do, Lopez." He smiles. "And I'll do what you tell me... but I don't think it'll be a problem."

They eat breakfast in silence and, by the end of it, Santana still doesn't know what just happened.

/

The team comes together the next day to come up with a plan and Santana's surprised when Will appears at the door, sits down and listens to them throwing around ideas.

He puts in his input when asked, tells them he's fine with the things they suggest.

He doesn't really offer them anything off his own back but listens, curious and barely concerned, leaving way before the rest of them do.

He reminds Santana that she should "do what she has to do" but she's not sure how helpful that is or what he's even suggesting.

She nods and returns back to the whiteboard in her office that's now scribbled with too many scenarios that probably won't work.

Quietly, she prays for a miracle.

/

It's a kick to the stomach that the crowd for Pierce's speech is huge. It streams on her newly live website and they sit there and watch how the crowd revs up, excited to see her.

Santana thinks that what they're looking is Coney Island boardwalk but she isn't sure. She watches with everyone else in the hotel conference room while Will has lunch with the mayor of Seattle. They eat takeout burgers and Puck hurls abuse at the screen until Pierce wanders up to her podium.

"Holy shit, she's hot," he whispers.

Quinn hits him upside the head. "This is really not the time," she comments.

Santana shushes them and the room goes quiet as they listen to Pierce speak.

Once again, Santana finds herself drawn in by the passion, the empathy, the drive. She finds her eyes glistening with bigger dreams. She looks around and sees that she isn't the only one, that everyone around her has been caught up, rapt in the words of this beautiful woman with the dazzling smile and the strong beliefs that shouldn't be coming from such a young brain.

She seems wise, knowing, and Santana feels herself swallow in fear of what this means as she waits for those final words.

It really doesn't take long.

"_...I stand here today before you, humbled and honored by the opportunities that you have already given me, to ask you for more—more support, more love, more trust, more hope, more _belief_, that we can change this country and make it better. I stand here before you, my family of New York and announce to you my candidacy for president of our beautiful country..."_

Santana tunes out after that falls back into her chair. She breathes unsteadily and watches as everything around her blurs and slows.

After that, only one question comes to her mind:

_What the hell am I supposed to do?_

/

Everyone avoids her like the plague.

She screams at anyone who gets close enough to irritate her.

They all look at Quinn like she's insane for even being the same room as her but Quinn just smiles at them all and says and asks all the things that Santana should be, writing them all down for her for when she's ready.

"She still crazy?" Puck asks later that day, completely ignoring Santana in favor of looking at Quinn and offering her some pizza from the box in his hands.

Quinn looks up at her and shrugs. "It's touch and go, still..." she mutters. "Give her a couple more hours."

It only serves to make Santana more angry.

/

"Knock much?"

Santana pays no attention to Lauren's words, just stands before her with her fists clenched adamantly at her sides, her eyes wide and warning.

"I want daily reports on Pierce," she says. "The first one better be on my desk by eight o'clock tomorrow morning or you're fired."

Lauren laughs and shakes her head. She looks bored. "Listen, if I can't find anything then nobody will."

Santana shakes her head. "I don't care. Find something."

Lauren looks at her exasperatedly. "There isn't anything," she tells her like it should be obvious. "I've done everything I can without breaking any laws. There's _nothing_, Lopez. She's clean."

Santana shakes her head, refusing to believe that there isn't something that can prevent this woman from ruining everything.

"So break laws," she says trying to keep her voice low and level and full of the same warning.

Lauren's expression narrows. "What?"

Santana clears her throat and straightens her back. "Break laws," she repeats. "Do what you have to do."

/

It's like none of them are daring to stop working for the day. They're all still sitting around and working, even though it's honing in on tomorrow.

"Chang," she says as she walks past him. He looks up at her, trying to look more alert than he really is. "I want you in my office in ten minutes."

He looks confused. "Okay," he says slowly. "Should I bring what I'm working on or—"

"No," she says. "Just get to my office."

/

When she tosses him a condom, he doesn't say anything, just unbuckles his belt and readies himself behind her.

For a split second, Santana wonders how fucked up this is.

Just as quickly, she realizes she doesn't care.

/

It's only the third debate of the campaign but she hates them already. She knows that there will be backlash afterward—there always is—and that some sort of shit will hit the pan, be it publicly or privately. She knows that whatever perfectly formed and thought out answers they give Will they will end up being misconstrued into something else when he forgets the most important parts of them.

She knows, she _knows_, that it's another chance for them to all be made to look like fools. Everything from here on changes the game.

That fact is only more solidified when one of the producers knocks on the door and gives them a strained smile.

"Hi, I'm Lawrence Porter. It's great to have you here, Governor," he says softly. "We're so glad you accepted our invitation."

Will shakes his hand and smiles. "The pleasure is all mine, Lawrence."

"I just wanted to let you know how things are going to go," the guy goes on. Santana stands back and listens carefully, knowing that she's probably the only one paying full attention. "You can just stay back here and prepare for now. We're on live at 8pm. One of our assistants will come get you around 7:45 and take you to the stage. Okay?"

Will nods but Santana has other ideas than to let the guy get away that easy.

"Who's he next to?" she asks.

The guy turns to her. "Excuse me?"

She rolls her eyes. "What order are they standing in?" she says more clearly. "Who will the Governor be standing beside?"

His eyes light up with acknowledgment before he buries his head into the clipboard in his hands.

"The Governor will be standing between Governor Hudson and Senator Whittier," he tells her.

"And everyone else?" she prompts. The man looks taken aback by her abruptness.

"Well, the order is Congressman Greaves, Governor Hudson, Governor Schuester, Senator Whittier, Governor Suarez and Congresswoman Pierce will, obviously, have to take her place at the end beside him at such short notice."

Santana feels her heart stop, her mouth dropping as a fluttering of conversation instantly begins from everyone behind her. Quinn's hand drops to the waistband of her skirt to hold onto her and she clenches her jaw to stop herself from screaming.

"Congresswoman Pierce?" she repeats. The guy nods. "And why were we not informed of this change?" she snaps. "Congresswoman Pierce announced her candidacy _two days _ago. How has she been included on the schedule?"

A bead of sweat drips down Lawrence Porter's forehead and Santana doesn't give a shit. She steps toward him warningly. He takes a nervous shuffle back.

"Congresswoman Pierce received an invitation to attend this debate as a way to welcome her to the campaign," he tells her quickly. "Fortunately, the Congresswoman was invited in enough time that she was able to fulfill the requirements to attend."

He nods and Santana just stares after him wide-eyed as he backs out of the room. Quinn's hand on her skirt tightens and she keeps staring at the door desperately until she feels her body reach it's limit.

Then, like a kettle, her temperature spikes, her body boiling until—

"FUCK!" she screams, barely aware that no one flinches.

/

"Santana, I got this," Will mumbles when she tries to get him to repeat his responses for the hundredth time since they found out.

She shoves the cards back at him. "No. Practice."

"Santana," Emma says from beside her husband. "He's been doing this all day. He needs a break. He needs some air, to _eat_."

Santana shakes her head. "You're not ready and, if you're not ready, you'll fuck up. Practice."

"It's not a Spelling Bee," he says, rolling his eyes. "I know what I'm doing."

"Will!" she warns and he gives her that look, the one that she hates, the one that she sometimes thinks is going to end up with her getting fired.

"Santana!" he says, standing up and grabbing his jacket. "_Enough_. I'll be fine." He shakes his head at her. "God, maybe I'm not the one that needs a break. Take a walk."

She shoves the cards at him. "I'm fine. We only have an hour. You need to practice."

"Santana, _enough_," he repeats, angrily pushing the cards away, taking them and tossing them behind him until they flutter to the floor. "Take a walk before I make you take one. I _got _this."

Santana shakes her head and then looks to Emma, then to Quinn and Puck and everyone. They all stare at her in that way that makes her want to storm away anyway, the one that makes her think that she's the only one who gives a shit, so she does.

She keeps shaking her head and yanks her jacket from the back of a nearby chair.

"Fine," she says and makes sure to slam the door behind her.

/

It isn't until she runs into the ladies room and straight into someone else that she starts to realize that maybe she should just keep her mouth shut.

The impact is a shock, makes something in her jolt and she looks up from where she was staring at her phone to see what idiot wasn't watching where she was going.

She regrets that action when she finds nothing but soft blue eyes and bright blond hair. She regrets it even more when those blue eyes widen and light up in recognition. She wishes she could just be one of those people who keeps their mouth shut and makes good decisions because then she wouldn't be in this situation.

She's not entirely sure when her body decides that her best bet is to removes herself from said situation. All she knows is that she's moving backwards and she's doing it fast.

"Wait!" is the first thing that comes from the woman's mouth as she removes the space between them again just as quickly. "It's you."

Santana doesn't respond, at first, she just keeps stepping backwards, desperate for the woman to stop following her.

She doesn't. She keeps following her.

"What are you doing here?" she asks and Santana tries to ignore how the curious yet happy expression on her face is one of the best greetings she's had in a while in order to remember that this woman is the enemy. "I mean... you were... What are you doing here?" she repeats.

Santana laughs and shakes her head. She turns around because she figures that it'll be easier to escape that way, easier to disassociate herself from the person looking at her and remember what she's supposed to be doing.

"Don't give me that bullshit," she mutters. "Like you don't already know."

The woman's smile drops but, for some reason, her pace quickens to keep up with Santana. "Wait!" she calls again. "I'm confused."

Santana laughs and goes with it when the woman grabs her elbow. She spins around to face her, forcing the grip away and jerks back at the sudden proximity. "Of course, you are," she says venomously. "You're obviously Little Miss Innocent." Santana drops her voice. "How'd you know we were there, huh? How'd you find us out?"

"...what?" she mumbles, concerned. Her lips purse together. "Am I missingsomething here?"

Santana shakes her head and stares off to the side, doing anything to avoid looking directly at the woman for fear of turning to stone or something worse. She feels blue eyes tracing over her and then a gasp. She feels someone grab the pin that sits on the collar of her jacket. Just as quickly, she remembers what it says.

"You're..." Santana looks up at the same time blue eyes find the venue ID around her neck. "_You're_ Santana Lopez?" she asks in shock. Santana shrugs her shoulders. "Wait, what? How?"

Santana chuckles and shakes her head. "You're fooling no one, Congresswoman," she says bitterly.

But Santana can't help but notice the tug in her brow, how low it goes at the words and how little she seems to understand. She swallows and still tries her hardest to avoid looking directly at her. She's afraid to look at her and see exactly what she saw all those weeks ago at that motel, all those things she's been trying to avoid for twelve years.

She's done so well up till now. She's not about to ruin it. Not yet.

Not for this.

"Stay out of my way," she says, low and warning as she begins walking away.

Pierce doesn't move this time but Santana feels blue eyes watching her the whole way.

/

The debate is almost uneventful, almost pointless.

To his credit, Will answers everything almost exactly how she wanted him to.

As he comes off stage, he smirks at Santana and pats her on the shoulder.

"Piece of cake," he whispers and she tries to smile but can't. Instead, she follows him back to where the rest of the team is, still working, already finding Santana the numbers she isn't really that concerned about right now. He flops down onto the couch and groans, pleased with himself. "I don't know what you're so worried about," he comments. "That was easy and that Pierce woman barely said a word."

There's some nodding from around them but, despite the fact that Pierce's performance was so non-existent that she might as well have just not been there, she still feels that knowing tug in her stomach, all the way up to the back of her neck.

"What a waste of good election money," he continues as he begins removing his tie. "She's going nowhere."

Santana wishes more than anything that his words were true.

/

Lauren knocks on her door around 9am.

Santana looks up at her, trying her best not to look as desperate as she feels.

"Anything?" she asks as she holds out her hand for the daily report.

Lauren shakes her head. "Not yet. Not really," she says. "There's a few things I want to check out, but nothing yet."

Santana sighs and nods in resignation.

As Lauren leaves, she looks back to her computer and tries to tell herself that the amount of articles on Pierce she has open means that she's doing her job. It doesn't mean she's worried.

It doesn't mean she's scared shitless.

But it sure feels like it.

/

They get back to Columbus later that day and Santana goes home to try and sleep but she can't.

She tosses and turns but, whenever she closes her eyes, she sees blond hair and the end of everything she's planned for.

By 3am, she's back at the office, coffee in hand and phone in the other. There's a freshly laundered skirt suit hung over her arm and she's glad that the building's open as she tries to juggle all three.

"Have a good night, Ms. Lopez," the night guard says to her as he helps her through her office door. It feels like only twenty minutes ago he was saying she same thing to her as she left. She gives him a tight smile and tosses the suit across her couch.

She's barely settled into her work when she hears the door open. It makes her jump and she clutches at her chest as she looks up to find Puck staring back at her. He's still wearing yesterday's clothes and she narrows her eyes at him as he slumps against her door frame.

"What are you doing here?" she says.

He shrugs. "I was at a bar, and I thought I was about to get lucky but then her boyfriend showed up." Santana can't help but to shake her head at him. "I figured you'd want everyone in at like... six, so I thought I'd come back here and sleep on your couch cos it's closer. I didn't think you'd be here."

There's a part of her that wants to call bullshit because she's _always _here, but she doesn't. She just looks at him and continues organizing her notes ready for the morning.

"Can't sleep?" he asks and there's a little bit of concern in his voice. She shakes her head. He smirks. "I know a way to help that, if you want."

Her smirk grows despite herself. She rounds her desk and steps over to her whiteboard, grabbing the pen and scribbling things on it. "You're incorrigible, Puckerman," she tells him after a few moments.

"A guy's gotta eat, right?" he says and she pauses because that makes no sense. Then she realizes what he might have meant and shakes her head.

"You're not eating me, Puckerman," she tells him with a sly smirk.

It's dark enough that she only notices that he's sliding up behind her when he's only a couple of feet away. His hand wraps around her waist and her eyes flutter in a way that isn't full of pleasure but resignation to what's about to happen, relief that she might get a moment to forget.

Puck's hand slips down to the front of her sweatpants, cupping her. Her breath catches as his fingers hit just the right spot. "No," he mumbles as his nose nudges her ear. "But I _can_ kiss you."

She shakes her head adamantly, her fingers suddenly attempting to pry his hands from her. "No, you can't."

He presses harder until she gasps. "Fine," he whispers. "I'll just have to fuck you, then." He ruts up against her ass and she lets out a low groan at the feel. His hand releases her but then it's slipping beneath fabric and stroking her. "Can I fuck you, Santana?"

She feels herself nodding before she can realize, her hands reaching for her waistband and pushing down against fabric.

She bends over, hands flat to her whiteboard and closes her eyes as everything disappears.

/

Pierce attends an event in San Francisco held by _the Harvey Milk Foundation_ and it sets Santana on edge all day.

The weird thing is is that she's not sure why.

It streams live on the internet and she's unlucky enough that they have nowhere to be today. She watches it from her office and can't help but listen to Pierce's words and wonder where they're coming from, what they mean. She notices how she speaks with compassion, like she knows what the feelings she describes are like, but never explicitly expresses that she does. More than once, Santana feels like she's seconds away from discovering the thing that will remove Pierce from the running and her life but it never comes.

So she sits and listens to the woman speak, absorbs her beliefs and her hopes and hates how they make her feel like she can't understand anything.

Except, if she waits long enough, listens hard enough, she does understand. She _can _understand but she doesn't want to. She hasn't, doesn't, tried not to, for so long that she thought she forgot how to.

"_We live in a country where all men are supposed to be created equal but some are treated as the opposite," _Pierce says. "_We live in a country where our happiness, our love, our existence is valued secondarily to the beliefs of others, decided by people who lack respect or understanding, and fueled by fear..._"

Santana blinks and wonders what Brittany S. Pierce knows of fear. She turns away from her computer and continues to listen to the speech rather than watch it, unable to handle the compassion in her eyes or the conflict in her own chest.

"Santana, I just got a call from a guy in New Hampshire about some event we're supposed to be attending..." Santana spins to find Mike stood at her doorway holding a notepad in his hands. "He must have had the wrong number but I took his, just in case."

"It's fine," she tells him. "Leave it on the desk and lock the door."

He pauses. "Santana?" he asks confused.

She looks up at him from her desk and raises her eyebrows. "Or you can leave if you want," she tells him. "But don't play dumb."

He looks from the door to her and back again before slowly stepping inside and closing it behind him. She turns off the video on her computer before standing and stepping over to the window. She closes the blinds before turning back to him.

"Take off your pants," she tells him. "And sit on the couch."

He doesn't argue and does as he's told.

/

"Can I take you out for dinner?"

She looks up from her computer and frowns at him. "Excuse me?" she asks as she continues getting her updates on Pierce.

Mike pushes his shirt back beneath the waistband of his pants and smiles at her. "Dinner," he repeats. "I'd like to take you out for dinner."

Her face screws up at the idea. "Why?" she asks, barely noticing how Mike's face falls just a fraction.

"Because, while these random hook-ups are fun," he says. "I was thinking I could maybe treat you right for once."

She's about to respond when she clicks a link that brings up a picture of Pierce she's not ready for. She's stood between two women holding hands, a child in Pierce's arms that obviously belongs to them. Her smile is wide and she doesn't look uncomfortable or awkward. Santana's eyes flutter down to the caption as her face falls. _Rep. Pierce meets with Tammy Lister, a Californian woman in the midst of a law suit against her employer. Mr. Eugene Berger fired Ms. Lister after she requested medical insurance coverage for her partner, Genna Grey and their son, Max. _

"Santana?"

She jumps so quickly that it takes her breath away. She stares up at Mike in confusion until he gives her a smile.

"Dinner?"he prompts.

She frowns and shakes her head. "No, we're just having sex, Mike," she reminds him. "Get out. I need to work. "

/

She thinks she's okay until she finds herself topless, skirt bunched around her hips with Puck thrusting inside of her when everyone else has gone home.

After, she tugs her skirt back into position and rolls onto her back, attempting to control her breathing and understand what's happening.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Puck says as he stands and zips his pants. She gives him a look before rolling onto her front and he laughs again. "Of course," he says and then slaps her on the ass. "Night, Lopez."

It's maybe ten or fifteen or forty minutes later before her door opens and she's still laying on her front trying not to think.

She glances up and sees Quinn looking down at her, eyes dark and concerned.

"What are you doing?" she asks. It feels like there's thirty questions attached to just that one.

She rolls onto her back again and stretches out. "I thought everyone had left."

"I forgot I had something I needed to work on," Quinn says quickly. "What are you doing, Santana? I've watched Mike and Puck each spend more than an hour in your locked office today. Whatare you _doing_?"

She glances up at her and shrugs. "Relieving stress," she says. "You should try it sometime."

Quinn looks at her and, for a second, Santana wants to tell her the truth. She wants to tell her best friend that she's scared that she's doing the wrong thing, that there's someone out there who can offer her all the things she's ever wanted, or ruin her dreams for good, and she doesn't know what to do about it.

She doesn't, of course.

She just looks at Quinn and shrugs.

"I need my head on straight," she tells her. "I need to be on my A-game."

Quinn shakes her head and leaves quietly, saying nothing else.

/

It takes two more days.

/

On the first, it hits Santana like a freight train.

She's watching Pierce give another speech—another life-altering, game-changing, hope-instilling speech—at a fundraiser in New York when—

"Lauren!" she calls from her office. A few moments later, she's stood at the door, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

She looks at her disdainfully. "You called?

Santana's already searching back through previous days' reports, her brain working on overdrive as she tries to think of anything else it could be but—

"Have you checked up on Pierce's financial background?" she asks quickly. "I mean—have you checked everything's in order."

Lauren rests her shoulder against the door frame. "She's fully funded."

Santana peers up at her over the top of her glasses.

"That's not what I meant," she almost growls.

Lauren just smirks wider. "I know," she grins. "But I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

Santana puts down the papers before reaching to slip off her glasses.

"Do I look like I care?"

/

On the second, Lauren wanders into her office at 5am, taps her on the arm to wake her up and, the minute her head has made space, drops down a pile of papers in front of her.

"I haven't slept, I haven't eaten," she says before Santana can even find her glasses. "but when I said that Pierce was 'fully-funded' yesterday, I wasn't aware of how accurate I was. And I'm not just talking about her campaign. Brittany S. Pierce, the woman who has barely done a day of paid work in her life, has somehow managed to begin a multi-million dollar funded charity AND run two political campaigns from her own income." Santana's eyes widen. "But I can't figure out exactly how bad that makes her, so once you do, you owe me breakfast, lunch, dinner and a nap."

Santana snatches the papers from the desk and rifles through them as she scrambles to put her glasses on. They end up half on her face and half off, but she manages to see that Lauren is right. Her mind feels like it's working right for the first time in days and she smiles.

"The government wanted to put you in prison for being a super-hacker, right?" Santana asks even though she's heard the story a million times before from Puck.

Lauren narrows her eyes. "But I'm a terrible person to not have on your side so they changed their mind. Why?"

Santana doesn't look up. "I want all of her bank statements. Details. The damn forms she filled in when she applied for them... I want her financial disclosure for Congress. Anything with a dollar sign and her name on, I want it."

"Who is she? Kesha?" Lauren comments.

Santana frowns, uninterested. "I don't know what that means."

Lauren smiles. "Of course you don't. Give me a few hours."

/

She only tells Puck and Quinn. They're the only two she trusts not to tell the cops or something.

She's glad when they don't seem too concerned when she tells them of the logistics of their operations. The fact that she doesn't have to explain her actions really saves them a lot of time.

She sends Mike with Will knowing that he can handle a house party while they try and figure out what's going on. There's barely any cameras or interviews, just sweet-talking of potential donors, so she knows they'll be okay and that Will won't say anything stupid. The three of them group together around her desk and yell at anyone who tries to interrupt them.

They're still waiting for Lauren to get them the information they need but that doesn't mean they're not trying their hardest anyway.

"Maybe she's a cat burglar," Puck mumbles and he's obviously getting tired. "Maybe that's why she's got all those gaps in her life. Maybe she robs museums and sells artifacts on the black market."

"How did you get this job?" Quinn comments idly. "You're an idiot."

Santana ignores them both, going through everything carefully, making sure not to miss anything.

/

Santana practically assaults Lauren the minute she knocks on the door. She grabs the papers in her hands and begins reading them as she stumbles back to her desk.

"Hello to you, too," she says dryly. "At least let me get through the door first."

Santana doesn't pay any attention, too busy attempting to make out what she's reading.

"Want me to explain?" Lauren asks. Santana doesn't look up but nods anyway. "So, it took me what felt like sixteen years, but I eventually found it."

"What?"

"Well, I basically traced her bank accounts," Lauren explains. "She got her first and only account when she was sixteen and I managed to find all the info for that. As far as I could tell, she has no other accounts; no savings accounts or anything, no bonds or shit like that, and the one she does have is pretty clean. There are no random payments of millions of dollars—most of her money actually came from her _mother_ for a very long time—until July 2009 when ten random payments of five hundred thousand dollars are transferred from another count over the space of two months, all of which are promptly transferred to _Safe Home For Families_, a Brooklyn-based charity, within a day or two."

Santana looks up and then hands over the papers when Lauren gestures for them. She puts them in the middle of the desk and flicks through them, pointing to all the things she's explaining.

"This happens again in 2013 around the same time Pierce started running for Congress, but less money this time, twenty, fifty grand at a time," Lauren says, pointing to all of them. "They're all transferred to _Pierce 2013_ within a couple days." Lauren stops and flicks to the first page again. "Now, when I looked it up, the DNC say that Pierce's campaign is, as yet, privately funded but look—" Lauren points to the page. "Her bank balance for the past three years hasn't gone beyond five hundred grand. You need at least a hundred million—maybe two—to run a Presidential campaign."

Santana looks and, sure enough, Lauren's right. Her brow furrows and she turns the page more to her. "So where's the money coming from?" she mutters, her stomach fluttering with nerves.

Lauren doesn't speak for a moment, until they're all looking at her, then reaches behind herself to take something from her back pocket. She draws it out and unfolds it, presses it down on the table in front of them.

"I traced the account that the money was coming from," she says. "It was hard, even for me, but I did it."

Santana looks down and reads what her eyes deem to be the most important.

_Account Beneficiary_: _Brittany Susan Baker Pierce _

_Trustee: Annabel Susan Pierce_

_Date account opened: September 14, 1983_

_Opening balance: $20,000,00.00_

"Holy shit—" Puck says softly, Santana sees him look up at Lauren in periphery but doesn't dare follow his gaze.

Lauren laughs. "I know, keep reading."

That, Santana does do...

_March 7, 1984_

_Payment: $15,000,00.00_

_From: Wallace Etheridge Baker_

_March 7, 1985_

_Payment: $15,000,000.00_

_From: Wallace Etheridge Baker_

…

_March 7, 1990_

_Payment: $15,000,000.00_

_From: Wallace Etheridge Baker_

Santana reads the words and isn't sure whether to laugh or cry as she realizes what they mean. Her throat closes up and she closes her eyes, waiting for something to drop or change that makes this information false or incredibly, irreversibly true.

"On March 7 of every year from 1984 to 2005, the same person put fifteen million dollars into this account," Lauren says carefully. "That's her _birthday_, every year from the day she was born to the day she turned twenty-one."

There's silence for a moment as they all stare down at the piece of paper. Santana can feel Quinn finally turn to look at her and it's the hitch in Quinn's breath that tells Santana she knows what this means. Once it's sunk in, she looks up at Quinn and finds her worried eyes.

"So, who's this Baker guy?" Puck finally asks.

Santana blinks and doesn't look away from Quinn. Quinn's hazel eyes beg things of her and she's too shocked to figure them out. She knows, deep down, that they're probably asking her to think carefully about the things she's probably, almost definitely about to do.

She looks away from her, just because she knows that she can't.

She turns to Puck instead.

"Wallace Etheridge Baker, is an ex-congressman from New York," she tells him. "He's the billionaire owner of _The Baker Group_ and he's one of the richest Republicans in this country."

Puck's eyes grow wide and Santana swallows, trying to find the right words to say this herself.

"And from the looks of it," she whispers brokenly, almost reluctantly. "He's trying to buy back Pierce's paternity."

/

"He's her _dad_?" Puck asks once he's googled _The Baker Group_ and seen what Baker looks like. "But he's like... old. Really, really old."

Lauren shrugs from her seat beside him. "Maybe he wasn't in the eighties."

Santana scoffs at them as she begins pacing holes in her carpet. "What _I _want to know is why it took us this long to find out who her fucking _father _is!" Her voice raises and she has to clench her fists and clutch them at her sides so she doesn't punch the wall... or Puck. "That seems like a pretty fucking basic thing to know about a person and I told you I wanted to know _everything_."

Puck scoffs. "Come on, Lopez," he says. "You know how it is. You see a birth certificate and only the mom's is name on it, you don't think 'secret rich old daddy', you think 'mom's a slut'."

"I don't fucking care, Puckerman," she starts. "We should have been _on _this!"

"I don't think it's Wallace Etheridge Baker," Quinn spits suddenly.

Santana's attention rips away from Puck to look at her. "Quinn!" she warns because she's really not ready for Quinn to want to go all reporter on this. They don't have time. They have what they need to know and they need to act fast.

"He has a son," she says quickly. "He has three sons, actually, but one of them is now the CEO of _TBG_ and will inherit everything. He's in his 50s, the same as Pierce's mother. He went to Columbia, so he would have probably been in New York in the summer of 1983. In 1983, _The Baker Group_'s headquarters were in Chicago."

Santana's eyes narrow. She steps closer. "And what's his name."

Quinn looks at her forcefully. "Franklin. Franklin Etheridge Baker."

Santana nods at her before turning to Lauren.

"Compile a dossier," she says softly. "I want everything we know by midnight."

Lauren leaves. Quinn and Puck round on her and Puck's hands find her shoulders, steadying her in a way that she didn't know she needed.

"What are you going to do?" he asks softly.

Santana shrugs and avoids looking at Quinn. "Whatever it takes."

/

Puck leaves to go find Lauren but Quinn stays. She sits in the chair opposite Santana and doesn't say anything.

"How'd you know all that stuff about the son?" Santana asks.

Quinn shrugs. "I covered Baker's last congressional campaign a few years back," she says nonchalantly. "I did a background on him and his family. He's been married for sixty years, has three sons, lives in upstate New York and has twelve grandchildren. Thirteen, now, I guess."

Santana tries not to absorb the information. Instead, she begins to jot down everything she needs to do, all the people she wants to call who might take the information.

As though reading her mind, Quinn clears her throat. "Where are you going to take it?" she asks, even though they probably both know.

Santana just looks up at her over glasses.

Quinn shakes her head. "She won't run it."

Santana shrugs. "Still."

At this point, she'll do anything. She doesn't care what it is.

/

Holliday won't run it.

Instead, she laughs, low and unamused, before clearing her throat.

"That's pretty old news, Lopez," she says and it's clear she's trying to keep her voice low. "Cooper Anderson told me that little snippet when I asked him her background. It's just one of those things people don't talk about out loud."

Santana gives a snort of disbelief as something start unraveling inside of her. "And you don't think that it's important to tell the seventy-two million registered Democrats in this country that person they're gunning for is really a blood red Republican? That Republican's are paying for her campaign?"

"Well, it's a little amusing, don't you think?" Holly asks instead of actually answering the question. "Plus, Pierce is bluer than anyone. But, then again, I'm pretty sure she's so bipartisan that technically we should call her rainbow or something."

Santana tries to not feel disturbed by that.

"There's more to what you're trying to spread, Lopez," Holliday says after that. "Maybe you should get your team of minions to find out the whole truth before they go trying to ruin a woman who might just be the only person in this primary who actually believes in something."

"Will Schuester—"

Holly bursts out laughing before she can continue. "Don't give me that shit," she says. "Will Schuester doesn't believe in anything but the unrealistic existence he's constructed for himself in his head. Goodbye, Lopez. I hope you'll make the right decision. For your sake more than anyone else's."

Holliday hangs up, leaving Santana wondering what she meant by that last statement.

She gives up quickly, not really wanting to know the answer, and looks down to the only other name on her very short list.

"Really, Santana?" Quinn says from where Santana reluctantly forced her to sit and listen to the conversation.

Santana groans and uncaps her pen.

"Really, really," she sighs.

/

She's on a plane a couple of hours later.

It's not that far to Baltimore anyway. It's not a long journey and she knows that she can do it in a day. She trusts Quinn and Puck to get Will to his forum okay and trusts them even more to get him to say the right thing.

It's just this job... this is the one that she should be worrying about getting right: her own one.

She arrives in Baltimore around one in the afternoon and it's too early to be at a bar, but it's the best place to be meeting him really because she can tip the owner to close the blinds and let her not be seen.

He's already there by the time she gets there because she's already an hour late.

It's a good sign that he's still there. Times must be hard. He must be desperate.

"Ms. Lopez," he smirks as she sits down at the bar two stools away from him.

She sighs and rests her purse on the bar, pulling out the envelope.

"Let's make this quick, shall we, JBI?" she says, bored.

He sips at what she is ninety percent sure is a white wine spritzer and waits with that same annoying smirk on his face. It's the same smirk that leers down at anyone who checks on his piece of shit, rumor-ridden blog.

"I have information and this is information that I need to be made public," she starts softly, glaring at the bartender to go away. "You need this information because you're about to go bust. You've got a bad reputation of spreading worthless rumors about very distinguished members of government and three lawsuits for sexual harassment and I'm sure you need a boost for that. So, here's what I'm offering: You run what's in this envelope at 8am tomorrow morning, you don't say where you got it from, or how you obtained it. Understood?"

He looks at her and gulps. "What's in the envelope?" he asks timidly.

"That's not what I asked," Santana says, pulling another envelope from her bag. "I asked if you understood the terms of this because if you tell anyone—_anyone—_where you got it from, then I will inform your court-appointed psychologist that you're still taking pictures of yourself masturbating over old ladies you see from your living room window," She hands him the envelope in his hands and waits until he's looked and quickly shoved it back in the envelope before speaking again. "Because that wouldn't look good in court next month, would it?"

He looks down at the bar and shakes his head.

"So," she says. "Are we understood?"

He nods.

She hands him the envelope with the information. He takes it but doesn't look at it right away.

She gets off the stool and sighs in relief.

"Good."

/

She gets back before they've even left for the forum. She strides into their hotel room in Iowa, her steps a little more sure, and smiles as Sugar hands her a cup of coffee.

"Well?" Quinn asks her.

She takes a sip of her coffee, noticing how it burns as it goes down.

"It's done," she nods.

She hates how there's still a tug in her stomach.

/

She doesn't sleep and stays up all night waiting for JBI to post the story.

At 8am exactly, she refreshes the front page of his blog and finds the article there, bold as day, waiting to be found by all the right people.

She feels sick and she doesn't know if it's because she's nervous or excited or if it's just the feeling she's had since she found out about Pierce is getting worse. She swallows and stares and tries to ignore it, but it's still there, pulling at her insides until she feels like she's splitting apart.

She ignores it and keeps pressing the refresh button.

/

By 11am, _CNN_, _ABC_ _News_, _Reuters_, _MSNBC_, _The Huffington Post_, _The New York Times_, _The Los Angeles __Times_, the _BBC_ and the _National Enquirer_ have all picked it up and reported on it..

By 11pm, there's not a space on the internet that hasn't reported on it except _The Washington Post_.

It makes Santana nervous, confused, and that bubbling in her stomach has her feeling like anything she drinks or eat will kill her.

She spends all night pressing refresh, waiting for one of Pierce's team to make a statement, but it never comes.

Puck wakes her up at 6am and asks her what she's doing.

She doesn't know what to tell him because she doesn't know.

/

It takes until 3pm the next day before anyone hears anything of Brittany S. Pierce. No statements are made and, when she finally appears, it's to face the camera crews and reporters that mingle outside the lobby of her hotel.

She doesn't say anything but, for the first time, she looks strained, isn't smiling and it pulls the tug in Santana's stomach move a little lower.

She convinces herself that it's because Pierce is still an obstacle, that she's still something she needs to beat.

It's believable for a little while.

/

She tries to sleep that night, but wakes up an hour after going to bed and grabs her laptop, sets it up beside her on the mattress and lays on her front, clicking refresh until she gives up.

It isn't until another hour and a half later that she realizes that she's been staring at the same picture of Pierce for all that time.

She closes her laptop and turns over.

She still doesn't sleep.

The feeling in her stomach plummets and her eyes sting.

She tells herself it's because she's tired.

It's believable for a little while.

/

By day three, Pierce still hasn't made a statement, has successfully dodged all questions at her event last night, and is still in the running.

By day three, Santana feels so confused and skittish that Will begins to notice.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks when he catches her disappearing from their conversation for the third time to look at the screens behind him.

He turns to look there with her and laughs a little.

"It's pathetic, right?" he says. "I told you she wouldn't get anywhere. She's gotta be an idiot to think that she could pull that one and no one would figure it out. I bet it's her GOP Granddaddy trying to pull her strings so that he can tell her what to do if she gets there. Look at her. She's like a damn puppet on a string."

Santana looks at him and forces a smile but it only makes her want to vomit.

That feeling only goes away when she looks back to the screen, to Pierce, and everything she's done.

/

It only really begins to occur to her what she's done when the press start to drag Franklin Baker into everything. They begin to speculate the amount of other illegitimate children that he has, how many other possible heirs he could have, if they would even be able to inherit the Baker fortune.

Because Santana didn't think about that.

She didn't think about Pierce or the Baker family, or the wife of almost thirty years, or their three sons. She didn't think about the future, of how one article could affect Pierce's life, an entire company, and a family. She didn't stop and wonder if it was a secret for a reason.

All she thought about was a presidential campaign, of winning, and making Brittany look bad.

On the news, Baker is seen wandering through a crowd of reporters in Los Angeles. Santana hasn't really seen him before and he looks different to the picture on the company website. He's in his fifties. He has brown hair, not blonde, and his eyes are the wrong shade of blue. His lips are the wrong shape but he's tall, like her. He walks with stubbornly dignified grace, just like her.

For a moment, Santana wonders if anyone would have ever known this truth if she had never unearthed it.

For a longer moment, she wonders what will happen because she did.

/

"She's gonna be at the debate tomorrow," Quinn tells her softly when she gets back into the office from a meeting with Will. "Pierce, I mean."

Santana sighs at the news and shakes her head. An undeniable feeling of anticipation bubbles in her stomach at the thought of it. Her only response is to drop into her chair and rest her elbows on the desktop before burying her face in her hands.

"She was supposed to have dropped out by now," she comments when she feels Quinn move closer. "She was supposed to be some Republican spy and this whole thing was supposed to catch her out but she's still here. So now I don't know what to think. Is this woman just... really fucking stupid?" She shrugs. "Was I _wrong_?"

Quinn tilts her head to the side and Santana feels like she's being analyzed, figured out. She doesn't look up, just rubs at her eyes because she feels tired. After so many days of barely any sleep, she just feels tired.

"What are you going to do?"

Santana shakes her head and breathes out steadily.

"There's nothing we _can _do," she says. "We already did it."

/

The thing she's started to learn about the primaries is that she really fucking hate Iowa. It's just another Midwestern state and there is literally nothing Santana hates more than a fucking Midwestern state.

It's because, in the back of her mind, she sees the sixteen year-old version of herself rolling her eyes because she got away, just like she always said she would, only to come back again like she said she wouldn't. It's the most irritating thing in the world and it only grates on her already preexisting awful mood.

"Move out of my way," she mumbles as they make their way through the university to get to the venue. She doesn't know what she's doing; she just wants to be seen by as few people as possible.

Plus, college students irritate her because they represent everything she had, everything she lost, and all the awful decisions she's made and is yet to make. .

When they reach the venue, there's a producer there to greet them. He says all the things that people say when they arrive somewhere and Santana barely listens, too busy taking off her jacket and searching for her notes. She wants to spend the last few of hours they have perfecting their answers.

She wants Will to be the best.

He has other ideas.

"The Dean called me a while ago and I asked if would poke my head into an evening history class the next time I was here," he tells them and it's the first time they've heard about it. "I thought it would be a good photo-op, you know? Showing that I'm still close to my roots as an educator..."

Santana huffs and she has so many things on her mind that, force once, Will Schuester is the last of her worries. "What about your answers?" she asks.

"I'll be back in an hour," he says, smiling and reaching forward to squeeze her shoulder. "If I'm not, you can drag me out yourself."

/

She stays behind and tries to answer some emails, tries to return some phone calls, as she scribbles more notes down onto Will's answers.

Her eyes keep flicking to the clock and she notices how the time runs quickly, till the point that she doesn't notice that it's been an hour and twenty minutes and Will still isn't back.

"Did they come back?" she asks Quinn, finding her on the phone, just outside the room. She shakes her head and points down the hallway when Santana asks where they went.

It takes another four people telling her where the class is before she gets there and finds it empty but by that time, she's already so lost among the corridors of classrooms and lecture halls that she feels like she's back in her first week at Georgetown.

"Fuck," she whispers and then spins in a circle. The entire place is now suddenly deserted and this isn't how she wanted this shit to go. She wanted to sneak in, chill out for five hours in whatever room they put them in, watch the debate on a monitor or online somewhere, and then sneak back out again.

But the minute she has to spin around in a circle only to come up short of her bearings, she knows that she's fucked.

She's really, really fucked.

The tug in her stomach tells her so.

/

She's still wandering around another twenty minutes later.

And it's not like she's trying to find where she should be—she gave up on that within five minutes—but she can't even find someone to _ask_.

But, when she does, she wishes she was still lost because, as she turns a corridor, she finds a classroom full of women and, there, stood at the front talking to them, she finds the last person she wants to see.

Pierce stands there, smiling and the women before her are smiling back. Santana finds herself stuck straight away, her eyes glued to what she sees through the open doorway. She stays there, stood back a little so that no one can see her, and listens to what she says.

And she's kind of funny, so when a laugh bubbles up Santana's throat, she's the last person to notice it.

It's not until blue eyes are locking on hers that she realizes her mistake. Her cheeks flush and, right then, she can't look away, even as she steps back. She can't look away because that would mean she would be missing the way that Pierce's eyes narrow with recognition, then darken, then flood with disgust and then, in that moment, Santana realizes—

_She knows_.

/

She steps back and walks away as quickly as she can. She keeps walking until all she can hear is her own footsteps but then she feels lost again and starts walking back because the view she sees out of the windows isn't the same as what she could see out of the window in their room.

She regrets it because, a moment or two later—

"HEY!"

Footsteps, quicker and more frantic than her own, start heading toward her, getting louder and louder by the second.

And Santana isn't a coward—

Well, maybe, she kind of is, because the minute she hears them, she just starts walking away twice as fast.

"Hey!" she hears again and then those footsteps are way too fast for her to escape from without looking like an idiot and actually _running away_, so she just keeps going until— "Hey, no, stop!"

A hand curls around her bicep and it's touch burns all the way up her arm. It puts her body on red alert and she spins around in an instant, angered and defensive, and pushes the hand away. It grabs her again and tugs at Santana until she's pulled sideways into an empty classroom.

"That's assault!" she cries, pushing the woman away again.

Her eyes are dark and angry and it shouldn't still make her look intriguing but it does. It should be unbecoming and telling but it really, really isn't and that only irritates Santana more.

"It isn't_,_" the woman tells her. "But it's not like you wouldn't deserve that anyway."

"Excuse me?!"

The woman scoffs. "Do you think I'm an idiot?! Do you think I don't know that _you're _the one that found out all that shit about me, that you're the one that told fucking Jacob Ben Israel?!" A second later, the woman's in her face, intimidating her for reasons that she shouldn't be. "I know people, too, okay?!" she spits and she's laughing through her anger. "I have people to find shit out for me too. I have "_contacts"_ and I know that all this shit is your fault, so tell me why... _Why _would you do such a thing?"

Santana looks at her for a minute and then laughs in disbelief. "'_Why_?'" she repeats. "Why do you _think_? Because I believe that the millions of people out there deciding who becomes the next president of this country deserve to know the truth about the people they're voting for. I believe that they deserve a candidate that's honest—that can tell the _truth_!"

"So you're working for _Will Schuester_?!"

It's like a slap to the face. Santana's face drops and she leans back away from Pierce to take a steadying breath.

Pierce takes a step back too, breathing quickly as her eyes never leave Santana.

"I think your view of truth might be a little skewed, Ms. Lopez," she breathes a few seconds later and Santana stops whatever was about to come from her mouth when she sees how the woman's eyes are becoming glassy. "Or maybe you should learn to be a little more thorough in your research before you come to your conclusions because whatever you thought was the truth is _wrong_."

Santana snorts and fueled by her words, decides to spite instead. "So Franklin Baker isn't your father? You aren't paying for your campaign with your daddy's Republican—"

"I've never _met _my father!"

Santana stops and her eyes narrow as her face falls at the words. It falls further when she sees the tear roll down Pierce's cheek.

The woman shrugs when Santana doesn't immediately respond.

"Franklin Baker is my father but I've never met him,"she says quickly, softly, and it almost feels like it's one of the very few times she's admitted what she's saying. "I've never met him and I've never met his father, or his wife or his children and—until this story broke—they didn't even know I existed and we were fine that way."

Santana's mouth drops. She shuffles uncomfortably and resists the urge to hang her head in shame.

"I never wanted the money," she continues in a whisper. "But it's always been a part of my life. I had no choice. It was my mother's decision. Accepting it was the only way that she could be free of the Baker family and I could live my life, so it was there when I was born. I only used it because otherwise it would have just sat there until the day I died and what's the point in that? By the time I was twenty-one I had almost four hundred million dollars. And, I'm sure you know, I lead a very simple life, Ms. Lopez. There were better things I could do with the money. And the money _isn't "_Republican Money"; it's _my_ money and I used it for what I thought was good."

There's a pause and Santana doesn't even blink. She's not even sure she breathes.

"That money has bought beds for women beaten by their husbands, for teenage girls thrown out into the cold," Pierce says as her mouth quirks into a smile. "That money has fed thousands of people, has clothed newborn babies, and—so what if it's a risk, a waste, and I'm not good enough—I'm hoping that, if I'm really lucky and it's meant to be, that it might somehow create better healthcare laws, improve equality and diversity, and save our country's economy... that it might educate children _better_."

Santana gulps and she feels so small and large at the same time that she's sure she can feel her entire existence in a way that she's never been able to before. She feels so many different things that she can't do anything but stand there, when all she really wants to do is say sorry and admit how unimportant she feels, and listen to Pierce continue.

"And I'm sure, Ms. Lopez, as you're someone who feels it's necessary to know the truth about the people with the potential to someday run this country," she says softly. "that you understand why I thought you should know this."

Santana's mouth manages to open and she sees Pierce give her a polite nod.

By the time she comes back to her senses, the woman has already gone and Santana's lost again.

/

"Jesus Christ, where were you?!" Quinn hisses when she finally finds her way back.

Santana feels sick, the tugging in her stomach feels like something more now, a nagging of something she can't quite understand yet. Her shock at Pierce's words still tingles at the surface of her skin like a million needles and she hates herself more than she's ever done before. She hates what she did and can't stop thinking about Pierce, about Franklin Baker, his clueless wife and his three almost definitely confused sons.

"I—I got lost," she says and then winces at her own words. She shakes her head. "Where were they?"

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Will forgot that school hasn't started again yet, so he went and found the Dean and they were talking and stuff." Quinn nods to the TV in front of them. "Pierce held a forum on women's issues in one of the classrooms."

Santana looks and almost tells her that she knows. Instead, she swallows and clears her throat, feeling desperate for water that might wash away the nausea she feels. She tugs on Quinn's arm and pulls her back a little.

"We shouldn't have given JBI that story," she says and Quinn's eyes glance over at her quickly before nodding.

"Yeah, Santana," she whispers. "But it's like you said—there's nothing we can do now; we already did it."

/

Will's performance is average but Santana doesn't really care, not when all she can do is stand off to the side of the stage and watch Brittany S. Pierce find her feet and wipe the floor with the rest of them.

She stands there, hoping that Pierce might see her, or walk past her, so that she can say what she wanted to say back there in that hallway. She hopes she can catch Pierce and tell her that she's sorry, but when she gets backstage, she sees her being whisked away by her handlers and knows that she's too late. She'll probably never speak to her again.

It's just another thing, in a very long line of things, that Santana has to torture herself with.


	3. Two Enigmas

Part Three

Two Enigmas

_August 20, 2015_

_Derry, NH_

The morning after the debate, everything's different.

It's strange.

Santana feels reigned in, chastised, and she barely says a word as she sees the repercussions of what she's done unfold even further before her.

She finds herself staring at the TV as it replays last night's debate, at Pierce who wears the same soft anger she'd possessed the night before tightly across her brow. She sees how she uses that frustration to fight back, to argue, and Santana doesn't know how to feel knowing that _she's _the one that's caused that power. She doesn't know what to _do_. Her head feels scrambled, like even the simplest things she was sure she knew don't make sense anymore. Her most fundamental beliefs don't feel like they're hers anymore and she hates it.

She hates it... even as something deep-seated and patient inside of her finally slips into place.

/

Franklin Etheridge Baker makes a statement that afternoon.

Santana watches as his lawyer delivers it to a small group of the press in New York, but can barely listen to what he's saying. She's numb as she sits on the edge of the bed in her hotel room and her brain buzzes with the need to _do _something, but she can't. It isn't until the guy has left the screen and they've cut to another news story, that she can even move.

She quickly searches for the transcript of the statement, because she's always worked better if she can see the words she wants to understand, and lets her eyes take it in.

_I have always been a private man, regardless of my position and status. I believe that there are some parts to a man's life that should remain private, things too complicated and precious to be explained. The discovery that one of those private parts of my life is being used in a most public and brutal way, for such an invalidated and political cause, saddens me. While I fully acknowledge Miss Pierce's paternity, I feel it necessary to inform all those insistent to blame and accuse, to create false stories with the snippets of information they are afforded, that my ties to Miss Pierce have always been silently addressed from afar. We share no familiar bond and our beliefs and ideals are not shared. While I wish Miss Pierce the best of luck in her endeavors, I do not choose to partake or harbor any responsibility for any part of them. I hope that this addresses the worries of those discussing this issue and that those stories will now cease. I have no further comment on the subject and request that my family and I be left alone. I wish the same of Miss Pierce and hope that she be allowed to continue on her campaign with no further discussion of this issue. _

The message the statement sends is clear and Santana's guilt is overwhelming. She reads the words over and over again and the effect they have doesn't lessen.

It's not hard for her to imagine what it must feel like to know that there's someone out there who's meant to love you unconditionally but can barely acknowledge you exist. It's not hard to imagine how much of a blow that must continually be, even after years of experience.

Santana closes her computer and sighs. She knows that there are things she should be doing about this but, for the first time, she doesn't want to.

For the first time since she saw her making that speech, Santana wants nothing more than to run unexpectedly into Brittany S. Pierce, if only so she can apologize.

But she knows that, because of what she's done, she'll never get that.

She'll be lucky if Brittany S. Pierce ever speaks to her again.

/

Baker's statement, along with her performance at the debate, gives Pierce some buzz.

While the political commentators acknowledge that she's more experienced than she looks, that her ideas—though simple—have some truth and possibility to them, the rest of the world sees Baker's brutal and public disassociation from Pierce as a reason to pity her.

They start talking about her struggle, how hard things must have been for her being the knowing daughter of one of the richest men on earth but only having his money and not his love. They start to hold her in higher esteem and, because of that, forget to talk about the other candidates.

And, usually, Santana would hate that. She would say that politics shouldn't be about sympathy but ability. She would rant her opinions to anyone who might listen but, for once, as they watch the latest report on CNN on their way to Nashua, she finds herself sitting quietly at the back of the bus, away from everyone else, and listening.

"Well?" Will asks quietly from his seat across the aisle from her. She looks at him, her expression questioning. For the first time in weeks, she sees struggle written across his brow. "What are you doing to fix this?"

Her eyes narrow and she looks nervously around the bus even though the only people here are those she can trust. "What do you mean?" she asks, even though she knows what he's asking.

He scoffs and stands up. He raps his knuckles against the TV as he glares at her. "You fucked up," he tells her and his voice is patronizing in a way she can't handle. "You found that information, you leaked it, but you gave her a boost... so what are you going to do about it?"

She looks down and lets out a mirthless laugh. It's awkward and she can feel too many sets of eyes staring at her, waiting. It's a question she knows they've all been wondering the answer to: What's Santana Lopez going to do next? It's a question she's asked herself only to find no answer to go with it.

"I'm working on it," she says, trying to sound as sure as she can.

Will shakes his head and taps the TV again. He looks down at her from where he stands. "No," he says and taps the TV one more time, jabbing his finger into the screen. It's more patronizing than his voice. "I want this fixed _today_," he says in warning. "So you better find something."

She shakes her head and glances up at Quinn only to find hazel eyes daring her to do something she can't put her finger on.

"There isn't anything," she tells Will as calmly as she can. "Lauren went through everything. She did _everything _she can to find something on this woman but this was all she could find and even that was false. Even if we did find something, who knows how it would spin."

Will rounds on her and his eyes are wide. "Exactly!" he barks. "Spin! Who cares if it's true or not? Maybe it'll give us _something_, Santana. Maybe it'll give us time or a new perspective or _something_, but just because there's nothing, doesn't mean we have to sit on our asses waiting for her to get the damn drop on us."

Her eyes roll and she looks out of the window beside her as she taps her pen against the table top. Fingers that aren't her own hit her chin a second later and turn her head back to him. She flinches.

"Find something," Will tells her quietly with eyes wide in warning. "Or that's it."

/

Santana's still sat there, a day later, in a hotel room in Boston, trying to find something to use against Pierce.

Lauren's dossier sits—completed, with all the information available to them packed inside of it—upon her desk, glaring up at her, mocking her and her inabilities, while she stares at it from the corner of her eye. She's read it from cover to cover and she knows that there's things she could definitely use against Pierce but she doesn't want to.

Every time she convinces herself that she can spin the gaping holes in Pierce's childhood and education into something damaging, she remembers the tears in Pierce's eyes and the sound of her voice when they spoke. She remembers how strong and weak the woman sounded, how assured yet lost she was, as she'd admitted something that Santana knows _she _would never be able to, and knows that she can't make up lies about Pierce. As much as she wants to, she can't do it.

Because she knows that she could make up great lies about Brittany S. Pierce—she thinks that she might have to—but, for the first time in this campaign, in her career, she can't.

She doesn't want to.

(She's not entirely sure what that means.)

(She doesn't want to think about it.)

/

It's just Santana's luck that Pierce decides to fumble an answer to a question on military budget.

Will looks at her across the conference room and still looks mad, but doesn't say anything. He just shuts off the TV and goes back to discussing his speech with Mike.

Santana breathes out a sigh of relief, glad for a little while longer.

/

"What are you doing?"

Santana looks up at Quinn with wide eyes and nervous hands as she fights to exit another news story on Pierce. Quinn looks at her curiously before throwing herself down on Santana's unused bed.

"So, I've got a question," she says carefully. Santana doesn't say anything, just carries on reading her emails quietly. The only sign she gives Quinn to continue is a quick quirk of her head. "Why aren't you trying to destroy Pierce anymore?"

Santana feels her lungs stop breathing and somehow manages to keep her face stoic. She grits her jaw and forces out a snort. "Who says I'm not?"

Quinn just gives her a look.

Santana breathes out and looks away quickly.

"She's clean," she mumbles. "You've seen the information. There's nothing there that we could spin that wouldn't potentially come back and bite us in the ass again. I'm not going to do something dumb just to placate Will Schuester's worries."

Quinn quirks an eyebrow. "So, what? You're just going to sit here and wait for Pierce to fuck up?"

Santana pauses because that sounds like the most logical thing to do and she isn't sure why she didn't think of it before. It strikes something through her and she coughs it away because the feeling almost hurts. She turns her concentration back to Quinn and shrugs her shoulders in a non-answer. Quinn's face falls.

"You really think that Pierce is going to fuck up?" Quinn asks softly.

"Who knows?" Santana sighs because as much as she's spent the last two days of her life thinking constantly about Brittany S. Pierce, she hates talking about her.

A laugh bubbles from Quinn. "Maybe _she's_ fucking everyone, too," she chuckles.

Something aches in Santana's gut at the thought. She ignores the words and smiles at Quinn instead. Soon enough, the room lapses into silence again and Santana goes back to her computer, replying to an email from the guy in charge of the Iowa HQ.

"Tell me honestly," Quinn says softly and from just the tone of her voice Santana knows that she isn't going to like what comes next. She doesn't turn around because of it. Quinn just moves closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Do you think she'll fuck up?"

It's the last thing she wants to be asked and there's an answer nagging at the back of her head as soon as the question is said aloud. She ignores it in favor of releasing a laugh and rubbing the corners of her eyes beneath her glasses.

"Who knows?" she mumbles because she knows that thinking about it will keep her up longer than she already will be. "Who fucking knows?"

The answer shocks Quinn. "Santana..." she starts but she's cut off quickly.

"I have to make a phone call," Santana says loudly. "Do you mind?" she asks without looking at her.

Quinn gets up but stands there for a minute, just staring. It isn't until Santana looks up and furrows her brow that she snaps back.

"Sure," she nods. "Of course."

/

In the hours that she lays awake thinking, Santana convinces herself that if only she could apologize to Pierce then there wouldn't be a problem. She would be guilt free and she could do her job.

She feels like she owes Pierce something and knows that an apology is all that she can offer, even if she'll never have a chance to deliver it.

She knows that, even if they see each other, Pierce will never listen to her.

More than that, she knows it's what she deserves.

/

Her time is up at the next morning's staff meeting.

"Santana," Will asks her and there's an edge to his voice that he didn't have when he was talking to Mike a minute ago. "Where are we with the Pierce situation?"

Santana looks at him over the top of her glasses and grits her jaw. She taps her pen against her notebook and nods as she pretends to read off the page.

"I've got a few things in the works but I still need to do a little more research," she tells him. It's a lie and, from the looks on their faces, she can tell that both Quinn and Lauren know that.

It goes straight over Will's head. "Okay," he nods sternly. "Get on it. I want to have ammo ready for after tomorrow's debate. If Pierce somehow manages to out-perform me then I want something that can stop her..."

Santana doesn't hear anything after the word "debate". Nerves and excitement and fear flood through her and she just nods until Will looks away. She plays a million different scenarios through her head in a second until she's jolted from her revere by a swift elbow to the side.

"You okay?" Quinn asks.

She nods. "I'm fine."

/

"Will you stop clicking the damn pen?"

Santana stops and turns to look at Quinn before instantly beginning to click her pen more furiously. Quinn makes a dash to reach for it but Santana's too quick.

"God, what's wrong with you?" Quinn groans. "Anyone would think you're nervous. It's just a fucking debate."

Santana stops clicking the pen. "Are you serious?" she says because beyond everything else that Santana's feeling, she can't believe Quinn just said that. "No debate is 'just a fucking debate', Fabray. Debates are like the timestamps of the campaign. Everything from the debate onwards is different from what happened before. Everything changes. Debates are where candidates prove themselves."

Quinn gives her a look.

"So..." Quinn starts carefully. "What's so different about this debate?"

Santana doesn't answer. She just sits down and begins to click her pen again.

/

It goes well.

Will answers his questions with the right answers and nothing goes wrong. No one fucks up. Santana spends the whole time trying not to look at Pierce and fails. Her eyes never leave the woman as she continues to prove to everyone around them that she can do this as well as the rest of them.

Will does his usual bit of charming the hosts of the debate once it's over and Santana watches as Brittany is ushered off the stage by a short woman who talks to her quickly and a vaguely Eurasian-looking guy with slicked back curly hair.

Her heart sinks a little because, somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd convinced herself that she would run into Pierce again, and that she'd be able to apologize to her before she could even stop her. She knows the odds of it were unlikely but she can't help but feel disappointed and angry.

She's uptight throughout the short ride to the hotel but forgets that when they arrive and discover the mass amount of cars attempting to enter.

"What the..." she whispers and looks to her left to find Quinn already on her phone. She speaks quickly and calmly, her face contorting and falling only once before she hangs up. She doesn't say anything straight away and Santana just sits and waits.

"So, basically, this is the best hotel in Hanover, right?" she starts and Santana just blinks in amusement. "And basically we didn't approve the accommodation for tonight, the debate organizers did."

"Right..." Santana prompts.

"And basically, the organizers tried to put each of the candidates in one of the five hotels in the city," she continues. Santana nods along with her. "Except now there's six candidates and this is the only hotel that had room left."

Santana nods. "So..."

"We're sharing the hotel and it's facilities with the Pierce campaign."

/

It takes them half an hour to get into the hotel and Santana's never hated Will for being charming more.

She pulls her suitcase behind her, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor, until she gets to the front desk and stares around at what she sees.

"I didn't think that she had this much staff," Quinn comments as they watch the dozens of unfamiliar people that fill the lobby around them. The only thing telling about them is the _Pierce 2016_ pins that they wear on their clothes.

Santana frowns and looks around. "I think that this is _all _her staff," she whispers and thinks of all their regional offices in all the swing states and DC. They have thousands of people working for them and, from the looks of it, Pierce has about fifty people that follow her everywhere. "Jesus Christ, what are they doing?" she comments when she sees them instantly heading for the bar.

It's a surreal thing considering that they just left a debate. She knows that Will's staff is probably upstairs in whatever conference room they've been given, already gathering the information that Santana requires of them, the numbers and figures, the charts and graphs. She wonders if the bar is the only place that's available for the Pierce staff to work in but, while she waits for them to pull out computers and cellphones and bunches of papers, they begin to toss off their suit jackets and order drinks.

Ten minutes later, when there's not a stack of polling data or cellphone in sight, Santana blinks out of whatever daze she was in.

The chuckle that leaves her is almost as shocking as the sight she sees.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me..."

/

She soon finds out that each campaign has been put in a conference rooms at either end of the same hallway. It means that they have to share the occasional elevator or stairwell but they rarely do because the entire Pierce campaign is still downstairs in the bar.

"Is that them?" Puck asks when a sudden burst of sound interrupts the silence of the room.

Santana looks up along with the rest of them and waits until the question is answered by Quinn who gets up to peek through the blinds and inspect the hallway.

She shakes her head a moment later and looks back at the room of people waiting for her answer. "Bachelor party, I think."

Puck scoffs, with the rest of the room. "They're _still_ down there?" he groans. "It's nearly one in the freaking morning."

Santana looks down at the papers in front of her before glancing up at Puck through her glasses. There are a few eyes on her around the room, waiting for a response.

She doesn't give them one.

/

An hour and a half later, when the crowd that appears in the elevator _is _members of the Pierce campaign, they all look at her for answers.

She shakes her head and gestures quickly for them to carry on with their work. Instead, they continue staring at her.

"You can party when we're in the fucking White House," she spits out quickly. "You can party when we've done what we came here for."

"But, Boss..." one of them starts but she cuts through him quickly.

"If you only came here to get fucked up on a week day then you're in the wrong place," she says and her voice raises steadily. She looks at them all and hates how she feels like she's failing them when she isn't. For the millionth time in God knows how long, she feels like she always does: like she's the only one who _gets_ what they're actually doing. It makes her angrier than she already is and she gets up, grabbing her file and standing up straight. "You're being paid to help the Governor become the Leader of the Free World. You're not here to see how many Jagerbombs you can drink before you black out."

"But—"

"You can party when we're in the fucking White House!" she says, her voice slow and steady and strong.

Puck scoffs. "If we're not fucking dead by then..." he snorts.

In a second, she's across the room and at his desk. She slams her palms down onto the wood and it reminds her of so many other situations like this she's had in Puckerman's presence. That only makes her angrier.

"You're here to help Governor Schuester win," she shouts in his face as menacingly as she can. "Nothing more. Nothing less. You do whatever _I _or the Governor tell you to do because we have a responsibility to protect this fucking campaign!" Puck sits stock still and unmoving. That's how she knows she's got his attention. "If you have a fucking problem with that, then there's the fucking door. Understood?"

Puck nods quickly. Santana spins around to look at the rest of them.

"Understood?" she spits. They all nod a second later and Santana shakes her head because she can't think of anything else to do. "Goddammit," she mutters, before leaving the room.

She slams the door behind her.

/

She's not sure why, but she goes down to the bar.

There's hardly as many people there as there were when they arrived and she only briefly wonders where they've all gone because she quickly notices a figure sitting at the bar.

Santana's panic rises but then disappears once her eyes have settled on her. Among everyone else there, she's the only person who looks like they're working. She's surrounded by papers and her Mac computer sits beside her. Her phone is pressed to her ear and Santana leans against the entryway to the bar for a second and just watches her as she scratches at her hair beneath her beanie before tugging it down over her ears.

(It's navy blue and has a bobble on the top and it _really _doesn't go with the black pencil skirt and button down that she's wearing, but it makes Santana's expression quirk in amusement anyway.)

Santana slips into the chair nearest the exit, obscured and hidden behind a pillar of open, red bricks. She sets down her bag and pulls out her papers as she watches Representative Pierce scribble something down on the notebook in front of her. The bartender wanders over to her and Santana orders a cup of coffee and tells him to keep it coming. He smiles at her and she strangely gives him a smile back before reaching back into her bag and pulling out her own notebook.

She stares at the woman at the bar until Pierce turns and looks around the room.

Her blue eyes completely overlook Santana, but Santana still diverts her gaze down to her work. Her cheeks blush and she clears her throat as she tries to concentrate on the tables of information in front of her.

As she sits there, it's like two separate sides of her brain are having a conversation, one asking the other why she's not going up there and apologizing while the other tells it to shut up like an embarrassed child. When it quiets, she realizes that she doesn't know why she hasn't gone up there, just that there's still a thick plug of guilt still wedged somewhere between her stomach and chest that makes it impossible to move her feet. Instead, she ponders the unfamiliarity of Pierce's actions and wonders how she can sit in a room filled with her staff and not even bat an eyelid about the fact that most of them are drunk and mindlessly groping each other. Like most other things, she questions the philosophy of it, compares it to what she knows and finds it strange. Will Schuester would either be yelling at them or joining in. She doesn't understand how the disconnect makes Pierce appear closer to her staff. It doesn't really make any sense.

She looks away when she realizes that she's staring again but doesn't stop thinking about what she sees.

She wonders what Pierce is doing, what she's working on, and not even for her own benefit. It's just weird to see a candidate actually doing work instead of just signing papers and doing what other people tell them they should do. As the bar begins to empty out even more, Santana can hear her conversations and the decisions that she's making without anyone there beside her.

It suddenly seems like such a foreign concept that Brittany S. Pierce would be nothing but a puppet for the GOP.

Santana can see, just from the crease in her brow, that she knows exactly what she wants.

The fact that Pierce can still smile and say thank you to the bartender—despite that crease in her forehead and the stack of papers beside her—makes the other side of Santana's brain kick in again. She ignores it because she can't go over there. Just because she knows it'll stop this funk she's in doesn't mean she deserves to be free of the guilt. She doesn't doubt that her stupidity is cause for half the papers in that pile.

She's not going to interrupt her. She's supposed to be atoning for what she did, not causing Pierce more trouble.

Instead, she decides to just sit there and work and watch as the bar slowly empties out. If anything, that way she can tell everyone that she's was on some fucked up reconnaissance mission.

As the hours disappear, her eyes occasionally glance up at the figure still sat at the bar until they're the only ones left. Not once does she see Pierce turn around; she works until the sun comes up and only stops when the bartender asks her if she wants to see a breakfast menu.

It's then that she checks her watch and smiles at him before beginning to gather up her things.

Santana turns her eyes away and is ready to call it a mission accomplished but, just as Pierce is crossing the room to leave, she makes the mistake of looking up.

Their eyes catch and, surprisingly, a gentle smile appears across Pierce's face. Santana's cheeks begin to burn when Representative Pierce gives her a nod.

"Have a good day, Miss Lopez," she mutters, her blue eyes tired and knowing.

Santana doesn't respond. She just keeps staring.

/

A couple of hours later, Santana releases a sigh of relief when Will doesn't ask her what she's got on Pierce. He's too busy talking to one of their fact-checkers about something Whittier said about him and making sure it's not true.

It's still too loud because Quinn turns to her and shoots her a look, her eyes knowing as her tongue runs along the edge of her teeth. Santana looks away and is glad when Quinn's attention is pulled back to Will when he asks her to draft him a statement.

Her breathing finally steadies when the room disperses and everyone begins to leave.

No one looks back at her for guidance and she's glad for that. She escapes the room and back to her own, standing stock still in the middle of it the minute that the door is closed.

She's not sure if it's exhaustion, or stress, or something, that's catching up with her, just that whichever one it is, it's never felt like this before. The things that she's done, the things she knows that she'll be _forced_ to do, nag at her and make her feel like she's spinning, going crazy.

Her eyes close and her hand reaches to push her glasses atop her head before she covers her eyes to soothe them from their constant aching.

As they close, she sees the image of Pierce's smile that morning staring back at her, taunting her with it's knowing pity.

She gasps out the breath that she's holding and rubs at her eyes, hoping that the image disappears with the pain.

/

He doesn't mention Pierce for another three days.

Santana guesses that she's out of sight, out of mind because Pierce hasn't made any appearances except for one small forum, but the minute that she's on CNN, answering questions about some bill outside of Congress, it's like Will finally remembers that she exists.

He calls her name and she sighs.

"I thought you were dealing with this," he says once she's stood before him. She figures that this is what kids must feel like when they're called to the Principal.

She swallows. "With what?" she says and playing dumb has never really been her favorite thing to do but he buys it anyway and carries on scribbling out his signature on the pile of papers in front of him.

"You were supposed to be making sure that Pierce's campaign went no further but she's still making appearances."

Santana looks to the side to where Pierce's interview still plays. "She's not making an appearance. She's outside of Congress."

Will looks up at her quickly and then at the TV. Santana thinks she sees his cheeks blush but he clears his throat. "I don't care. I want her gone."

A laugh escapes her. "You're gonna win," she tells him but her voice lacks sincerity and strength.

He puts down the pen and it thuds against the desk. "Yes, I am," he says and his voice has what hers lacks. "But who said I wasn't?" He narrows his eyes. "You think that I think _she _is a threat?" He scoffs but it almost sounds like a gag. "She's nothing but a distraction from the campaign, a novelty... a bad smell that won't go away."

"I just..." she starts but he cuts through her. She feels like she's been letting him do that too much recently.

He slams a hand against the desk. It isn't hard but it makes his point. "I want her _gone_, Lopez."

She breathes out and smiles through the need to scream.

"Yes, Sir," she says and leaves before he can say anything else.

/

For the first time since the campaign started, Santana's glad that Will Schuester insists on attempting to be a good father.

While the promises he's made as a husband, governor and boss are nothing but inconsistent, he always keeps his word to his daughters. And, while she hated the idea when she first heard about it a month ago, the fact that Will is taking Emma, Charlotte and Emily camping as soon as they get back to Columbus feels like the best thing ever.

It means that she can breathe easier as she talks to the press knowing that she doesn't have anything to worry about for the next five days. She doesn't have to worry about whether or not something Will says will make him look bad (because what's more all-American than s'mores, a campfire, a wife and 2 freckle-faced, auburn-haired angels?) and can just deal with her shit.

"Miss Lopez," one of the reporters asks. "Are you still confident for a Schuester – Reynolds race?"

The question stops her and she forces a smile before she folds her hands together and clears her throat.

"Of course," she nods and, for the first time, the words feel bitter.

/

They get off the jet at just before 5am the next morning and the weather is still warm enough that the cool of the morning feels soothing. Santana breathes in the damp of the early morning air as she watches Will's car leave with Quinn and Sugar stood beside her. She can feel their eyes on her and ignores it, just remains quiet until Puck, Lauren and Mike come over to join them.

"The cars should be here in a second," Puck explains and she nods quietly, still watching where the red lights of Will's car disappear down the street. "What time do you want everybody back at the office?"

She doesn't answer him because she doesn't really hear what he says. She just remains staring until she feels someone nudge her.

"What?"

Quinn looks at her as Puck's eyes narrow. "What time do you want everyone back in the office?"

"Oh," she mumbles. She toys with the bags in her hands and shifts the strap of her briefcase higher on her shoulder as she sees the cars approach. "Take the day off," she says quietly. "Come back on Monday."

They all look at her. "You're giving us the weekend off?" Lauren asks.

She narrows her eyes and tries to look irritated. "Don't look so shocked," she mutters. "You can work if you really want to. It makes no difference to me."

She's glad the cars arrive because it's easier than standing there watching them gawp at her.

"Wait," Puck stops her as she goes to move forward to get in. "You're serious? You're giving us the day off? What happened to us being paid to get Will to win?"

Her eyes narrow and doesn't understand why he can't just take what he's given like a normal person.

"Don't get used to it," she mutters in warning. Puck hands fly from her and he smiles in relief. She scoffs at him as she steps towards the car and turns back to them when she's thrown her bags inside. "If you're not all working your asses off on Monday, you're fired."

As her car leaves, she can still feel them watching the car in confusion.

A proud smile breaks out across her face and she's not sure why.

/

Her apartment smells stale when she gets there, and it's only then that she wonders why she asked the driver to bring her here instead of directing him back to the office.

She'd forgotten how depressed this place makes her. From the too-whiteness of the walls and the starchiness of every fabric, everything about it feels too forced to look like home. It's pathetic and she's seen hotel rooms and Ikea set-ups that do a better job.

But it's the Barnes and Noble across the street reminds her that she's in no position to judge. It's the Barnes and Noble across the street that keeps her here, remembering that she doesn't really know what a home is supposed to look like anymore.

It's the Barnes and Noble across the street that has her stepping over to the kitchen the second she walks through the door and searching through the cupboards to find the first bottle of alcohol she can find.

It makes her feel mature that it's a bottle of red wine.

She pours too much in a glass and sips at it quickly, downing most of it before she comes up for air and refills it again. She drinks that just as quickly and shakes her head at herself before setting down the glass and heading for the window. She closes the blinds and the drapes and throws herself down onto the hard, uncomfortable couch they've given her.

The TV is still switched to C-Span when she turns it on and she sits quietly and watches, only really paying attention when they show Pierce giving another speech.

Strangely, the sight of her face makes Santana calm.

She doesn't know when she falls asleep, just that she wakes up disappointed.

/

She spends the rest of Saturday working quietly at her crappy dining room table before getting frustrated and spending most of the night and early morning watching CNN and clicking her tongue with everything she disagrees with.

She wakes up early in the same underwear and button-down she was wearing two days before and loathes herself for how gross it makes her feel. She rubs at her temples to rid herself of the wine-induced hangover she has and struggles to get herself into the shower.

She makes it till late afternoon before she can no longer stand her crappy corporate apartment and redresses herself in a brand new suit and calls for a car.

/

She doesn't sleep Sunday night.

When everyone arrives on Monday, they look at her like she's exactly where they expected her to be.

She loathes herself for that too.

/

For as much as she expected to be calmer, she still sits at her desk and waits for Will's call telling her to get her ass in line.

She sees videos of Pierce's appearances and wonders if he can get CNN in the middle of nowhere. She reads reports on how well she's doing and mentally tries to bargain which action she will take next to ensure that Pierce hates her. She tries to think of ways to get out of whatever it is that Will wants her to do.

She comes up with nothing and just keeps worrying.

/

He's refreshed and energized by the time he comes back and he smiles and claps her on the shoulder when he gets into the office.

She smiles stiffly and presents him with his itinerary. It's something that his assistant should be doing but they haven't found him a replacement for the last one yet. She's still trying to get him to agree to hiring a guy and she's happy to continue doing this until he does.

"We've got a meeting at the state capitol at two," she tells him carefully. "The Lieutenant Governor requested a meeting, so we've shifted some things around before we fly out and then we have a dinner with the Manchester school board tonight and that's it."

Will nods as she hands him paper after paper to sign. He looks at none of them. After all these months, she still doesn't know how to feel about that level of simultaneous trust and obliviousness.

"And what time's the jet leaving?"

She checks her watch. "Four," she tells him. "It's nine-forty, so... just over six hours."

He nods and she notices that he begins to scribble his signature quicker. She narrows her eyes at him and clears her throat.

"Is there something wrong?" she says.

He looks up and shoots her a smile. "I just remembered that I have something to do," he tells her. "It's Emma's birthday, we're having a late dinner tonight and I want to get her something. I'm free until two?" he asks. Santana nods. "So, keep holding the fort for me here?" he smiles. "I won't be long, I promise."

She nods and listens as he calls for his car. He sweeps from the room a moment later, leaving Santana with an unsettled feeling in her stomach.

She sits down in the chair opposite his desk and tries to place it but can't.

/

It isn't until she gets a call from Emma that she figures it out.

She used to be so good at being able to tell but it's been so long that she kicks herself when she realizes.

"Governor Schuester's office, Santana speaking," she answers quickly, up to her nose in memos and invitations.

The line crackles with the sound of young girls screaming before it clears. "Hi, Santana, it's Emma, is Will there?"

Santana stops and looks up. "Uh, no, sorry Ma'am, he's in a private meeting all morning. Can I take a message?"

There's another crackle, another scream alongside a childish whine before—

"No, no, it's fine, I just wanted to speak to him before the girls and I left for the airport," she explains.

Santana checks her watch. It's only half eleven. "You're a little early, Ma'am," she says. "The jet doesn't leave for Manchester until four."

Emma laughs nervously. "No, Santana, the girls and I are going to Rhode Island until the end of the week to visit my parents. It's my birthday and they're throwing me a party."

Santana's heart sinks and her hand comes to push her glasses atop her head as she rubs at her eyes. It's not the first time that this has happened but it doesn't get any easier.

"Happy birthday, Ma'am," she says. "Could I get a message to the Governor for you?"

There's a pause. "Just let him know that I've taken the nanny and that I'll call him this evening."

"Of course, Ma'am," she says and her voice constricts with more guilt. "Anything else?"

"No, that's all," she says. "Thank you, Santana."

Santana nods her head and forces a smile.

"You're welcome, Ma'am," she nods and waits for the line to cut out before she slams down the phone.

/

He returns at one thirty and jumps when he finds her leaning against his desk when he walks in.

He stinks of cheap perfume and his own vile sweat. Santana swallows against the need to vomit for more than one reason and gives him a look that tells him she knows.

When he does nothing but laugh, she has to fight the urge to hit him.

"Don't look at me like that," he demands.

She grits her teeth. "You were supposed to be stopping," she reminds him. "You were gonna be better, remember?"

He shrugs off his jacket and heads over to the adjoining bathroom. She knows that there's four clean suits in his office closet at all times for this exact reason. He steps back out a few moments later, shirtless with his pants undone. She folds her arms and looks away as he moves closer to her.

"I don't see how this is affecting how I give speeches," he says and his voice makes her skin crawl. He heads over to the closet. "If anything, you should be glad I'm getting myself a clear head—"

"You have a _wife_," she reminds him.

He turns around and laughs darkly. "And we've had sex twice in the past year. Twice and she won't even listen to me when I ask why." He shakes his head. "I have _needs_, Santana. Surely you must understand that."

There's something in his voice that she instantly ignores. She shakes her head and heads for the door. She stops when she gets there and turns around.

"You're an asshole," she tells him.

She doesn't give him a chance to argue, just leaves and closes the door behind her.

/

She doesn't speak to him for the rest of the day and three days after that and, by the time she's forgotten how much of an asshole she is, she's too busy trying to avoid him and the fact that Brittany S. Pierce is still heading to their next debate in Florida.

She figures that Will isn't saying anything for fear that she might do what she usually does and leave him high and dry, but she still doesn't look in his direction just in case. Her mind switches between ignoring him and trying to forget that she might see Pierce again.

She keeps her eyes on her notes in front of her and doesn't realize that they've landed until Quinn nudges her. She looks at her funny but Santana glares and follows the others off the plane.

Will's already in his car and driving away by the time her feet hit the ground.

It's a small upside.

/

"Debate predictions?"

Santana jolts but recovers herself quickly and glances up at Quinn in the doorway of Santana's newest hotel room office.

She shakes her head. "Why?"

Quinn shrugs. "Just wondering what you think's gonna happen. The Jewish Federation of Florida's largest demographic is men and women over fifty-five and they're hosting this debate. You've had Mike brushing Will up on his social security policy for the past three days. You have a plan."

Santana looks away and sighs around a smile. "Our main worries are Whittier and Greaves," she says carefully a moment later. "They're both old assholes who other old assholes will like, so I've made sure Will can charm the pants off of these guys."

Quinn smirks. "And the others?"

Santana shrugs. "Suarez is no problem and Hudson will have no idea what to say to a bunch of Jewish people. He probably doesn't even know what Judaism is."

"And Pierce?"

Santana pauses and shrugs. "She's a thirty-one year-old woman from New York. Her knowledge of Jewish people probably extends to her occasional deli visit and Broadway theater stars."

The words leave her and make her feel nervous. Quinn laughs and it makes her feel just a little bit better.

/

She handed Mike a stack of information to hand to Will three days ago but, the moment that he steps in front of the crowd at the University of Miami, Santana knows that he's not even looked at it.

For a second, she wonders if he knows where he is because he looks incredibly confused to be standing there in front of three old, Jewish guys.

He pretty much fucks up from the first question and Santana turns away from the crowd as she tries to wish herself away. She covers her eyes and ignores the consoling hand that someone puts on her shoulder. She doesn't turn around until she hears a voice that's slowly getting comfortingly familiar.

"Shalom, everyone," Pierce says. "I'm really glad to be here because the issues of the elderly are important, regardless of what faith, ethnicity or gender they are..."

Santana winces and slides down the wall behind her, covering her eyes and bringing her knees to her chest.

"We're fucked," she whispers. "We're fucked, we're fucked, we're fucked..."

/

For the first time, Santana gets to see Pierce leave one of the debates. She sees her as she runs into the crowd by the exit and watches her as she stops and talks to a group of old ladies sat in a row against the wall.

"You did very well up there," one of the women says and Santana edges closer as she sees Pierce blush a little and move nearer to them.

She bends down to their level and smiles. "Why thank you, Ma'am," she smiles. "Is that a Brooklyn accent I can hear?"

The old woman smiles. "Flatbush... born and raised," she says. "My husband moved us to a retirement home here in Florida five years ago but he died eighteen months back."

Pierce's face drops into one of sadness. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Ma'am."

The woman smiles. "You're a good girl," she nods before turning to the women on either side of her.

Santana watches and waits when one of the women starts talking heavily in another language. The first woman's face drops and she leans closer to Pierce.

"Sorry," she says. "Apparently she could never get the hang of English. She's from Israel. I barely understand what she's talking about."

Santana notices how Pierce's eyes light up, how she giggles a little before shifting closer to the other woman and resting a hand on the arm of her wheelchair. Her brow furrows but then she begins speaking in what appears to be the same language, making the old woman's face light up.

"You speak Hebrew?" the first woman asks.

Pierce pushes blond hair behind her ear. "I can speak it but I can't write it," she laughs. "I visited Israel a few years back. It's a beautiful country. Are you ready for Rosh Hashanah?"

The old Israeli lady still looks over-joyed. "Very good," she chants at Pierce's speech. "Very, very good."

Pierce smiles and Santana finds herself smiling too. Someone leans down to Pierce and whispers something in her ear.

"I better go," she says before turning and repeating herself in Hebrew. "L'Shana Tova."

The women return the greeting and smile at Pierce as she stands up. Santana shrinks back away from her as she waves and leaves and watches as she disappears in the crowd.

Her eyes narrow and she can't help but shake her head and wonder how many more times Brittany S. Pierce is going to shock her in this campaign. She finds herself questioning what else there is to learn about this woman, things that government records and bank balances can't tell you, and wonders if she'll ever get a chance to discover them.

It must say something when she realizes that she doesn't know, just that she wants to.

/

Will doesn't say anything to her on the way back to Columbus, or throughout the whole of the next day.

Santana waits and waits for him to make his demands, for him to threaten her with things, forcing her to do the last thing she wants to. She waits, but it never comes.

He sits in his office and barely speaks to anyone. There's a quiet part of Santana that smiles knowing it's probably due to embarrassment.

It's strangely gratifying.

She lets him stew until he wanders past her office the next day and finds her watching videos of Pierce earlier in the day.

(They're from a forum she held on education in a Greenwich Village coffee shop and Santana can't help but look on bewildered as Pierce sits amongst a group of people in a pair of jeans and a blazer, sipping a cup of coffee as they talk about what kids should be learning. She can't help but agree with the journalists that her approach is nothing short of novel. It looks like an opening scene from _Friends_.)

"Turn that off," is the first thing he says and she turns to him in the doorway and quirks her brow at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Turn it off. Now," he demands and steps closer, his expression almost wild as he reaches for her computer. She moves it from his reach and looks at him.

She narrows her eyes. "And again... excuse me?"

A fist slams against her desk a second later. The huge pile of files sat at the edge falls to the floor, hitting another pile, then another, like dominoes. Santana breathes out and grits her teeth before moving her chair back away from the desk.

Will just fumes. "Turn it off," he demands again. "Turn that... that... _idiot_ off, before I do something I'll regret."

Santana almost laughs but there's something in his tone that stops her. She moves back in her chair a little further and then closes the lid of her computer so that Pierce's image disappears.

"Happy?" she asks him.

He glares at her before moving closer, his nose almost pressed to her nose, one hand coming up to grab at the collar of her jacket. "Do not test me, Lopez," he whispers and then almost as quickly his hand is gone and he's moving back a little. "You have forty-eight hours. If that woman is still going along with this pathetic campaign of hers after that, then you're _fired_, Lopez, do you hear me?"

She gives him a look and then smiles. "You'd be fucked without me," she tells him. Anger bursts across his features but she doesn't let him speak. "And not in the way you like."

The grip on her collar tightens. "Forty-eight hours," he spits. "Are you listening? Forty-eight hours and then you're gone. You're out. Do you hear me?"

She nods and she only feels one quiver of fear. This isn't the first time he's threatened her like this and she doubts it'll be the last.

"Loud and clear," she whispers and leans into him before shrugging him off her. "Now get the fuck out of my office."

/

Once he's gone, Santana opens her computer and continues to watch the video.

She's a little shaken, but as soon as she sees Pierce on screen, she finds her body soothing, quieting as her heart begins to slow down.

She watches quietly, noticing how Pierce stops to talk to anyone who wants to speak with her. Her brow furrows as Pierce speaks what sounds like Russian to an elder couple, then Spanish more perfect than her own, to a young mother with a new baby.

It makes her smile and she finds herself slipping to the back pages of her notebook and reaching for a pen.

_BSP_, she writes at the top of the page. _Speaks: Hebrew, Russian, Spanish..._

She looks down at the words and studies them like writing them down might have given her more information. She taps her pen against the page when she realizes that it hasn't and jumps when an intern drops a box of staplers outside her office door.

It wakes her up and when she looks down at the notebook again, it's closed and there's blood dripping down her finger.

She slips it into her mouth and sucks at the paper cut.

It stings, regardless.

/

She tries to find something, anything, if only to get Will off her back so that she can just get on with everything else, but she still can't find anything to use.

She can't find anything that she _wants_ to use.

There is plenty of questionable things in the dossier that she carries everywhere in her briefcase. There are things she could project from, like the amount of time Pierce's spent out of the country to the organizations she's been a part of, and then there's the things that will raise eyebrows regardless of how she spins them.

Still, there's no way that she's making anything of Pierce's numerous wedding proposals. Nor is she going to delve into the rumors of her less than crystal clear sexuality. If there's one thing Santana's learned from Brittany S. Pierce already, it's that things are never how they seem and she knows that bringing up those things will do nothing but bite her on the ass.

She sighs and closes her eyes and sees a million things she's sure she's witnessed in her dreams. They're memories and wishes. They straddle the line between the too-true and unreal.

When she opens her eyes, she hopes that her world feels less dizzy but it doesn't.

She's glad when Sugar knocks on her door.

"Coffee, Miss Lopez?"

She just nods and even offers her a smile.

/

Forty-seven hours later, she still doesn't have anything.

For someone who could be fired in the next hour or so, she's strangely calm.

"How about this thing about the affair with the married guy?" Quinn asks from where she lays back on Santana's hotel bed.

Santana rolls her eyes. "We're not stooping that low."

Quinn turns to look at her but Santana instantly looks away. "And her daddy issues weren't low?"

Santana doesn't dignify the question with an answer, she just pushes her glasses to the end of her nose and sighs.

"I want to find something that is political, not personal, something that might make a voter think she's not capable." Santana closes another window on her computer and clicks open another. "That's what we should be doing and that's what this should all be about. The fact that she might have had an affair with a married guy doesn't prove that. It just proves that she's on the same level as every other politician who ever lived."

Quinn gives her a look that makes Santana want to shift awkwardly in her chair or get up and leave.

"And if there's a reason the smartest political mind in the country can't find a flaw in Brittany S. Pierce's logic?"

"I'm not the smartest political mind in the country."

Quinn scoffs. "Yeah. Ya kinda are, but your modesty is still charming. Answer the question."

Santana sighs and looks up over the top of her glasses. "There's nothing really wrong with the logic. It's just naïve and simple."

"So run with it."

Her eyebrow quirks and she snorts. "You can't be serious."

"Deadly."

A laugh escapes her. "I'll never keep my job on that."

It's Quinn's turn to laugh then. She chuckles and her eyes grow strong and serious for a moment.

"Santana," she says clearly and softly. "Even if you had nothing, you'd be keeping your job anyway."

The words make Santana stop.

"What does that mean?"

Quinn shakes her head. "It means that your modesty is charming... but there's a fine line between that and being clueless."

She gets up and Santana watches silently as she wanders over to the door. She turns back once she's opened it and sighs.

"Figure it out," she says. "And do it quickly."

Santana's not sure what she's talking about but it unsettles her anyway.

/

"What is this?" Will says after he's read the report she sets in front of him a few hours later.

She stands back from the desk and clasps her hands behind her back, adamant and defiant.

"It's what you wanted on Pierce," she tells him.

Will looks at her before looking back down at the pages in front of him. "_...Representative Pierce's ideas, though clear, coherent and reasonably realistic, are naïve and lack complexity. Research suggests that if other candidates were to strengthen their own politics, Pierce's campaign would destruct..._" he reads the words clearly before slamming it down on the desk in front of him. "This is bullshit!"

Santana doesn't flinch.

"I refuse to concoct false information in order to intimidate someone to withdraw from this campaign," Santana tells him quickly. "I didn't take this job in order to make people feel threatened. I took this job to change things and make sure that our next leader was the best person for the job. If you have a problem with that, then fire me as I've obviously have misunderstood what you were trying to do here. If not, I suggest that you stop this ridiculous vendetta against Representative Pierce and prove your worth. I am an expert in political philosophy and theory and I would appreciate if I was able to do my job instead of wasting my time."

Her voice doesn't falter, or catch. Her body doesn't betray her. She stands there with her eyes set on him, watching as his face burns red and falls. She sees a million things, a million emotions that she wants to call fear. She sees them and still doesn't let her expression change.

His, however, changes completely. The anger dissipates and his back straightens. She listens as he clears his throat and moves closer to the desk. He doesn't speak for a moment, but then—

"Get out of my office," he mutters.

She does falter then. "Excuse me?"

He glances at her. "Get out of my office," he whispers. "And go do what I pay you to do."

She tries not to smirk but it doesn't really work.

"Yes, Sir," she nods and leaves the room.

/

The next time she speaks to him, they're in a suite at the Trump Soho in New York.

They barely speak. They're here for the annual 9/11 Memorial Ceremony and he's not really here for anything but to show his face and look good next to his wife, but she gives him a press briefing anyway. She knocks on his door and is glad when Emma opens it with a kind smile. She welcomes her in while Will barely acknowledges her. Emma looks between them with a puzzled expression but Santana just smiles and slips the written briefing from her leather folder and sets it down on the table before him.

It's 6:30am and it's way too early for this, but she straightens her back anyway and clears her throat.

"Each answer you give today has to be delivered with as much sensitivity as possible," she tells him. "Today will be hard. Regardless of how much or little you say, you'll be scrutinized. I've outlined some ideas for answers or comments you may like to use in the packet. The cars will be here at 7:00. The welcome breakfast with the press is at 7:30 until 8:15, after which the congregation will promptly seat themselves for the ceremony that starts at 8:40 ready for 8:46."

He nods and then scrunches his face. "What's so special about 8:46?" he mutters.

Santana glances at Emma who purses her lips slightly. Santana gives her a smile and returns her attentions to Will.

"8:46am is the time that the first plane hit the towers, Sir," she explains. "The ceremony opens with a performance by a local choir which leads into a moment of silence for each plane involved in the attacks. There's an order of service in the packet if you'd like to read it."

Will nods and Santana's sure she hears him huff a little.

"If that's all, Sir, I'll see you at the ceremony."

He doesn't say anything but Emma smiles.

"Thank you, Santana," she says and her voice is the perfect for the First Lady of Ohio.

Santana nods. "You're welcome, Ma'am."

/

There's a press line which welcomes them in and, apart from a few uncomfortably stilted answered Will gives, he actually does pretty well. He holds Emma's hand and people barely stop taking pictures of them. Their appearance is somber and appropriate. Will manages to not mention the fact that he's running for President—the sole reason he's been invited—and Emma talks about how she's heavily involved with the continuing efforts to help the survivors of this terrible tragedy.

Santana quietly wonders how holding a benefit once makes her heavily involved.

She tunes out and looks around, finds Hudson and Whittier talking to journalists and news reporters while Suarez and Greaves talk to the big guys with the money who they have no chance with. She has no idea who she's looking for until she can't find them. Her brow furrows and she looks back at Will just as he moves onto the next person.

He gives her a look as he waits for Quinn to talk to the reporter.

"What are you doing?" he hisses. "Concentrate."

She nods but a moment later, she's looking around again.

/

There's a performance by the choir, the minutes of silence, the acknowledgment of yet more rebuilt World Trade Center buildings appearing in the neighborhood, a poetry reading, a couple of speeches and some singing.

Santana watches everything from a TV in a staff tent set up away from the press. Quinn stands beside her, bored and unimpressed by everything that's being said. Santana has to admit that there's not nearly as much emotional participation as there has been in previous years. The whole thing kind of just feels like an elaborate ruse to alert the press that it's an election year next year and that the new Two World Trade Center will be opening soon.

That's until a familiar form graces the stage, heading towards the podium.

Santana's heart skips a beat and she's not entirely sure why.

She freaks out.

"What the _damn_ hell," she barks out, her eyes going wide because part of her was hoping that she was going to make this easy, that she'd do what everyone else is doing and just sit there and not annoy Will, but no. She's there and she's stepping towards the podium with a beat-up Moleskine notebook in her hands. "This is _not _on the program."

Quinn looks at her and narrows her eyes "What are you talking about?" She shakes her head and puts the program in front of her. "'_Speech by the House Representative of New York's 8__th__ Congressional District._' It's her district. They give a speech every year."

Santana feels her body need to breathe in and breathe out at the same time. Her heart begins to thud and she folds her arms across her chest as she waits the few seconds before Pierce speaks. All she can think about is how much shit Will is going to give her after this. She prays that Pierce says something stupid but she knows it's as useless as praying for whiskey-flavored rain.

She knows it the minute that Pierce sets those blue eyes on the crowd in front of her and sees the determination.

For the first time, she's sure she knew it the minute she she clapped eyes on her.

/

It takes Pierce a few more seconds but soon she shoots the crowd a smile and opens up her notebook. It shakes in her hands a little and Santana shifts closer to see as she smooths a palm over the page in front of her.

"I'm sure that many of you out there are awaiting a speech full of political agenda and campaign speak," she says softly. It instantly shocks Santana because Pierce shakes her head and clears her throat. "I'm sure that many of you can't believe that I'm standing here and are thinking that the compassionate thing to do would be to forgo this speech and save whatever I'm about to say for a town hall meeting in Manchester or Dubuque." She shakes her head. "But I was asked to do this speech months ago, before there was campaign schedules and buses, and it wasn't about politics then and it won't be now."

Santana watches, rapt and silent, as Pierce shifts on the spot and shakes her head.

"Because when I was asked to give this speech, I asked what I was supposed to talk about and I was told that I should talk about 9/11 and how it impacted the country, how it impacted this city, and reaffirm that this city will return to it's former glory. Except I don't need to do that. You can see the proof of that standing around me..." She gestures to the buildings rising high behind her. "Instead, I would just like to remember, to try and understand, to learn."

Beside Santana, Quinn shifts closer. Santana doesn't have to look at her to hear the "wow..." that she breathes out.

She ignores it in favor of watching the woman on screen.

Pierce shuffles again and runs her fingers over the pages in front of her.

"I was seventeen the year that the World Trade Center fell," Pierce says, the words coming out clear and level. Santana can almost hear the strain in them, fighting. "It was a Tuesday. I had an early morning dentist appointment and I was running late. I had History class. I remember because we were learning about the Middle-East." There's a pause and Santana sees something in her face crack for a second. "I would learn a lot more about the Middle-East in the months after that day." She stops and Santana waits for further elaboration but it never comes. "I also remember that I had a meeting with my college adviser and I thought that my biggest worry for that day was telling this stern old lady with a bunch of college brochures that I wasn't even sure I wanted to go to college."

There's a few chuckles around the crowd but they quiet quickly.

"I was running down Pierrepont Street and my laces were undone. My best friend was calling me, asking me where I was..." She trails off, her eyes glancing down to the side. "And then 8:46..." She shakes her head. "I could hear it from Brooklyn. It was loud and I paid no attention to it at first because that's what you do in New York. But then there was screaming and sirens and just... noise. I stopped and turned and I forgot school completely." She looks like she's ready to be chastised for that. "There was already a little crowd on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade when I got there so I joined them and I watched, shocked at what I saw and then horrified when it happened again. I wanted to scream and shout and just... _run, _help... anything." She chokes out a laugh and shakes her head. "My mother came and found me and she gripped my hand so hard that I was just grateful that it was there. I didn't say a word but we just stood there, silent and patient, almost, as we waited for what came next."

Santana shifts on the spot and doesn't understand the burn in the corners of her eyes.

"The sky had been so _blue_," she moves on. "So blue and so clear and I was so mad at the smoke as it filled the sky. It was so thick and black and deadly and you could see nothing through it as it engulfed the city in this sadness that's almost impossible to understand. I still never figured out if it was my mother that was trembling or if it was me or if it was both of us, just that I could feel it for days afterward. All you could feel was everything vibrating with panic. All you could hear was rumbling and sirens and the military jets flying overhead. The promenade was packed with people, all their eyes pointing the same way, and I can still hear the gasps when they both fell. I can still remember how some looked away and some just stared. I can still remember the shouts and the prayers and all of it. It's not something you forget." She shakes her head as to reaffirm her words. "The relief at seeing ferries full of people crossing the river was overwhelming. When they evacuated people across the Brooklyn Bridge, I can remember how they looked like the most beautifully alive ghosts, just covered in white ash emerging from the dark cloud over Manhattan."

When Santana hears the first sniff of tears behind her, she knows she's in trouble.

"A lot of people didn't stay for long," she goes on. "They disappeared to call people they knew in Manhattan or to just to be with their families. But my mom and I just stood there, watching as the sky disappeared and the smell—this wet, burnt, endless smell—made you feel like you were being strangled to death. Hot metal and burning paper, furniture, fabric, flesh..."

Something inside of Santana catches at the expression on Pierce's face as she reaches to press the back of her fingers against her nose like she can still smell it.

"I'm ninety percent sure my mom only stayed because she knew I'd be across there helping if she left," she continues eventually. "And damn if I didn't try and convince her to let me. She wouldn't, of course." There are some smiles. "She took me straight to our church because we heard that it was helping out refugees from Manhattan. It was nothing we weren't used to, you know? I've been to crisis zones all over the world and helped out but it was weird to see these people so close to home go through that. I spent hours with dozens of others handing out bottles of water and rubbing the backs of people who could barely breathe from what was stuck in their lungs. We gave blood. We gave old clothes. We helped find food for people... found them beds..."

People listen so intently that you could hear a pin drop. Santana swallows and it feels like the loudest thing around.

"And it was from that that nothing made sense anymore," Pierce's face changes and Santana's eyes flicker to each corner of it to see the muscles move. "Like, what was it for? Four planes. Almost three thousand people. And for what? What did they want to achieve from this because everywhere I looked, through this pain and destruction, all I could see was people loving and caring for each other. All I could see was a city, that so many get lost in, coming together to save itself. All I could see was millions of people clawing and fighting and being _strong_."

A tear drips down Santana's cheek and she catches it quickly, shocked and alarmed when she feels it wet against her finger.

"It's been fourteen years and there's still some inherent part of me that doesn't understand why," she shrugs. "Like there's a million different reasons and explanations given for what happened but sometimes I still stand on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade and remember and ask myself 'why?' anyway. Why did all those people have do die here? Why did all the people in the war after it have to die too? Is it just a bunch of powerful men making bad decisions? Is it anger? What is it that has us having to remember all this pain we endured?"

The argumentative part of Santana, the one that has an answer for everything, wants to speak but the rest of her stops it quickly. Pierce goes on.

"But then I look around and I think... should we be concentrating on the pain? Should we move on? It's been fourteen years now. Will it ever make sense or can we learn something from all of this?" She releases a sigh. "Because I know that I've learned something... I've learned that this city is my _home_ and that when someone tries to destroy it, they destroy a little bit of me too. I've learned that concentrating on the pain just makes you frustrated and angry and still without answers." She smiles. "There are better things to be remembering on days like this than the pain. Good things, things that some of us don't even realize are there."

Pierce looks up and gives the crowd a big, wide smile.

"When people look at this country and how it responded to what happened that day, they don't see a country that was scared and tried to hide," Pierce shakes her head. "We were strong and proud and loyal. We were brave in the face of our pain. For all that we lost, we gained the knowledge that we can overcome anything. All the senseless violence did was make us better and allowed us to grow and learn. And sometimes remembering that isn't good enough, but today I think it should be. If not for us, but for the people who lost their lives, we should look back on this and not concentrate on how much pain it caused, but how _brave _we were."

Santana clears her throat and tries not to smile along with Pierce.

Pierce clears her throat and glances down at her notebook once more before closing it quietly and looking back up. She takes a pause.

"Someone once told me that it doesn't matter how far you fall, just as long as you get back up," She says with a smile. "And, if you look around us, that's all you'll see: America standing proud and brave around you, showing you that _anything_ is possible."

The crowd erupts in applause. People jump to their feet. The minute Pierce steps back from the podium and gives a little bow, Santana hears the press tent burst into noise. Everyone in their tent remains quiet, still. Santana breathes out and remains staring at the TV screen.

"Damn," Quinn says from beside her, finally voicing what they're all thinking. "She's good."

/

There's another, much less emotive, speech from the Mayor and then the President before the names of all the lives lost are read to a continuous applause.

Pierce sits back at her seat and claps louder than everyone else. Santana watches her from the entrance to the tent, barely able to see her but for the blond of her hair and the blue of her eyes.

She waits for Will to return once the ceremony is over and, when he does, he looks unlike how Santana imagined he would.

He looks old, worried, and she narrows her eyes at him as he just picks up a bottle of water and drinks it slowly before looking around at all of them.

"What next?" he asks.

Santana looks at him, then to Emma, and then to Quinn but they both look just as confused.

He shakes his head impatiently when no one answers him. "Well?"

"The Memorial Luncheon," Quinn tells him when Santana's still just staring. "Dignitaries are invited to meet and thank those who were involved that day. The New York City Fire Department, the NYPD, the families of the victims and the survivors..."

He nods and sips his water.

"Good. Excellent," he says, grabbing Emma's hand. He gestures at his security to lead them out and Santana watches as he leaves.

After, she looks at Quinn for answers.

The expression on her face doesn't give any.

/

She's not entirely sure where they are, just that there are hundreds of people filling the space as it vibrates with noise.

It's strangely overwhelming, with the pictures of Ground Zero that cover the walls and the heat and the noise. Santana sits beside Quinn at another table as they listen to more speeches and watch more people speak solemnly about the loss the city took. Santana glances across to where Pierce sits, pursing her lips with every awkward comment that someone makes.

The whole thing makes her head spin and she clutches at her chest once the lunch is over, glad as people begin to clear the tables and mingle again. She looks to Quinn and reaches for her.

"Are you okay?" Quinn asks instantly.

Santana nods. "Are you okay with him?" she says quickly, ignoring the question. "There's something I need to do."

Quinn nods. Santana doesn't wait another minute before she excuses herself.

/

She goes to the bathroom and splashes water on her face, staring at herself in the mirror like a cliché as she waits for body to right itself.

It doesn't work. The mirrors and white walls make her feel claustrophobic and she struggles to breathe as she stumbles back towards the door.

She has no idea where she's going, what she's doing, just that she needs fresh air and won't stop until she finds it. She wanders along hallways and opens doors and sighs in relief when she opens the door and feels cold air on her face.

She's in some sort of courtyard on a balcony that overlooks a tropical garden filled with greenery and flowers. She presses herself against the balcony wall and breathes.

She closes her eyes and doesn't open them until she hears someone open the door behind her.

"No, no... it's fine, I can be there... No, it's fine. We'll figure something out."

The voice makes her skin prick. She doesn't turn around but her eyes glance sideways to where she sees a shadow moving closer. Her breath instantly holds and she tries to cough to make her lungs work again. It chokes from her and all it succeeds in doing is alerting the woman to her presence.

Santana's confused when she feels her move closer instead of turning around and walking the opposite way. She coughs again, calmer this time, and reaches into her pocket to find a packet of cigarettes. She takes one out but doesn't smoke it, just plays with it in her hands.

"Listen, Angie, I have to go..." There's a pause. "No, I'm still at this thing..." A laugh. "Shut up, no it wasn't. I'll see you when I get back. Okay. Bye."

Santana waits for her to leave again but she doesn't. She just leans against the balcony too, fifteen or so feet from Santana's right, and looks out toward the garden below them.

Curiosity spikes a few moments later and Santana glances sideways to see Pierce thumbing through her phone, concentration hard on her face.

"You know, you're supposed to smoke that."

Santana jumps and turns away, shifting a little further away from the woman. She has to force herself to breathe.

"So you've got nothing to say for yourself now, huh?"

The words are teasing but they still make something in Santana's stomach drop. She coughs and takes a few steps nearer to the woman, just enough that, if Pierce was to turn around and punch her, she'd be able to jump out of the way before she got near enough.

"Representative Pierce, I—"

"Brittany."

"What?"

Pierce glances away from her phone to Santana. "My name is Brittany."

Santana frowns. "Yes, I know..."

"So call me it," she says nonchalantly.

Santana stands there stumped and then clears her throat. "I would rather call you Representative Pierce, if it's all the same." The words make Pierce smile and she isn't sure why. She doesn't say anything, so Santana goes on. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for any of the repercussions I caused you after what I did. I wasn't thinking clearly and I regret it. I hope that you can accept my apology."

Santana stops, not sure what she's doing. She blinks the thoughts away, reasoning that whatever it is she's trying to do, at least it might allow her to work easier without the guilt.

When she looks again, she finds that the smirk that sat on Pierce's face is no longer there. Instead, it's been replaced with something softer, more confused. Santana looks at her and tries to convey her sincerity. It just makes the expression on Pierce's face change again.

With a quick nod from Pierce a second later, Santana feels the weight on her shoulders lessen.

She slips the cigarette in her hand into her pocket and returns a nod of thanks. Pierce offers her a smile and they sit in amiable silence for a few moments before Santana turns back to her.

"Your speech was..." Santana starts and when Pierce pushes blond hair behind her ears at the words, it makes something flutter inside of her.

"You saw that?" She asks quietly.

Santana gestures somewhere behind her. "Well, I was watching in one of the side tents... it was..." She stops and shakes her head before sighing. "What was it like?" she asks, changing direction. "I mean, to be there, that day... what was it like?"

A sigh releases from Pierce and Santana feels like she's asked the wrong question, like she's overstepped some fundamental boundary that people should inherently be aware of. The feeling disappears when Pierce moves a little closer and rests her hip against the concrete wall of the balcony. She looks at Santana and Santana watches as she bites her lip a little and sighs again.

"It was like I said... but worse," she starts and Santana takes a breath and holds it. "My mom knew people who worked in that building. My best friend's dad, and one of the closest things to a father I have, works on Wall Street and we had no idea where he was for hours. He was one of those people on the Brooklyn Bridge. He walked home."

Santana blinks at the words, even as Pierce smiles through the tragedy she explains.

"All you could see was black smoke, all you could hear was sirens, and screaming..." She shrugs and Santana gulps. "The day after, it felt like everyone knew somebody who was lost in the rubble. All the kids in my school had rich banker parents who worked there and a lot of them refused to believe that they weren't coming home." She gulps and looks away. "It was just day after day of people losing hope."

Her eyes snap back to Santana and they're blue. They're so clear and blue.

"I've seen a lot of sad things in my life," she starts and her voice is barely there. "but that day was one of the worst things I've ever seen."

Santana nods and they lapse into silence. Santana turns away and a few seconds later she thinks she hears Pierce sniffle.

"Where were you?"

Santana's eyes snap back beside her and find those eyes on her again. She raises her eyebrows in confusion and Pierce smiles before pointing to her.

"Where were you that day?" It's such a cliché question and Pierce seems to realize it the second it comes from her mouth the second time. She rolls her eyes a little. "I mean... where are you from?"

Santana clears her throat. "Oh," she says awkwardly. "Um, Cleveland. I was fourteen." She shrugs. "The scariest part about it for me was that plane that they thought was hijacked too had to emergency land in Cleveland... and my dad's flight from Miami got grounded." She blinks, shocked that she even remembers that, and clears her throat. "I guess that was pretty scary."

When she turns back, Pierce looks at her with intrigued eyes. She hates it and she looks away from her to overlook the garden again and steady her breath. Her mind starts running a mile a minute, her heart beating so fast that she thinks it might jump from her chest. She blinks away the tingles that prick at her sink and tries to swallow down the nameless panic she feels.

It doesn't work. Nothing works until—

"I'm sorry I was so rude to you."

Wild and losing control, Santana turns back to Pierce and finds her closer, her eyes softer.

Her breathing instantly begins to calm.

"W-what?" she chokes out.

Pierce shrugs and smiles. "I really have to go, but I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, too. For how rude I was in Des Moines. I'm still new to this and I know that you were just doing your job. Even though, you know, it was kind of a fucked up thing to do."

A laugh erupts from Santana's mouth and she bites it back in favor of smiling at Pierce instead. She nods in agreement and Pierce laughs too, but Santana's not too sure she's laughing at the same thing.

"It's fine," she mutters quietly.

Pierce's smile gets bigger and she taps her hand at the balcony before pushing back off of it. "So we're good?" she asks. Santana's eyebrows raise but she nods as she watches the woman step back towards the door. "Great. Awesome. Anyway, I have a plane to catch." She smiles again, wider this time. "It was good talking to you, Miss Lopez."

Santana nods. "You too," she says but Pierce has already left, disappeared back inside.

It isn't until she's been stood there another five minutes, that Santana wonders why it's so great that they're good.

It confuses her because she thought that they were supposed to be against each other.

She ignores it.

/

It's the days when Will doesn't question everything she says that unsettle her most.

They have an appearance in Manhattan later that that day and he takes the notes she gives him and reads them carefully, clutching Emma's hand all the while.

The next day, when they arrive at their Des Moines headquarters, they hold a staff meeting and he spends the entire duration nodding at what they tell him. He asks them about the speech they've written for him for the event the next day, questioning everything they've written, the motives and how they predict it'll make him look.

Santana watches him carefully because she's never really seen him like this. She's never seen him actually trying hard, like he's almost scared about something. But, she guesses that, with less than four months to go until the Primaries and after nine months of doing this day after day, it must be getting real.

He comes into her office a few hours later, awkward and stressed, a pen in his hand and sweat on his brow, and asks her what she thinks of this change he's made.

She looks over it and narrows her eyes. It's completely unlike him: full of feeling and almost ballsy.

She nods and reaches for her own copy, crossing her pen through the words and writing in the change.

"It's good," she tells him. "It's really good."

He almost collapses in relief.

/

She's not entirely sure what this event is for, all she knows is that it's not a debate but all of the candidates have been asked to make speeches throughout the night. Everyone is dressed in evening wear, meaning that Santana's been forced into yet another dress that old men can happily leer into.

There's a press line and, for some strange reason, at things like this, they always make the campaign managers walk it separately from their candidates.

Quinn still stands between her and Will, vetting both of their questions, but it's still a weird thing to do. If she's honest, she hates it. She's not really here to talk about what needs to be done in these campaigns; she'd rather just do it.

And the questions are awkward and long and she finds herself drifting away to look around her.

She regrets it when her eyes fall further down the line.

Pierce stands still between reporters, watching and waiting fondly as a short, animated brunette talks quickly to the person waiting to talk to her. A second later, blue eyes are flashing up at her and Pierce is giving her a smile that she struggles to return from the shock. She's lucky that the short brunette woman catches her attention a second later and she looks away. It stops Santana from doing anything stupid.

"Santana!" someone hisses from beside her.

Santana snaps to the voice and finds Quinn's hazel eyes glaring at her, the reporter just looking bored and confused. She fights away the warmth burning in her cheeks and clears her throat.

"Sorry... you were saying?"

/

The minute they get Will out of the way of the press and into his small dressing room at the back, Quinn drags her along a few hallways until they come to an empty room.

"This better be good, Fabray," she mutters and her head is already starting to pound from the stress of just _being _there. "I have shit to do."

Quinn nods. "And what shit would that be?" she asks.

Santana doesn't like the tone.

"Excuse me?"

Quinn shakes her head and then lets out a mirthless laugh. Santana would say it was tired but it just sounds pissed.

"You told me that if I joined this campaign I would be helping to get one of the most promising politicians in the country into office and that he would change things," Quinn starts. "You told me that he was good and that he was different but all I see every day is a guy who barely knows what he's doing unless he's trying to get into someone's underwear."

"Fabray!"

Quinn groans and looks around to see if there's anyone nearby. "Sorry, sorry," she sputters out apologetically. "I'm just struggling to see why we're here anymore." She shrugs. "And I say 'we' because you know I wouldn't be here if you weren't, and I look at you every single day and I _know _that you're thinking the same thing." Santana's mouth falls in shock. Quinn shrugs again. "Why are we here, Santana?"

Santana shrugs away the grasp that Quinn still has wrapped around her wrist and shakes her head. "I've got no idea what you're fucking talking about..." she spits under her breath. "I _know _what I'm doing here. I'm here so that Will Schuester wins. That's what I'm fucking here for."

She spins and tries to leave but Quinn grabs her and turns her around. Her face is calm but her grip is strong. Santana grabs at it weakly but can't release it.

"We all know that that's what you're here to do, Santana," Quinn says lowly. "But that isn't what I asked. I asked _why_... Why are we here working for a guy who doesn't care when we could be working for somebody else who actually does?"

Santana's eyes widen and she takes a step back, despite the grasp. She hates how Quinn's eyes spark with recognition, how they _know _when Santana's been caught. They both know who she's talking about and Santana grits her jaw to stop herself from doing something stupid. Quinn must see it because she lets go and steps back. The fact that Quinn knows her limits better than she does just makes her more angry.

"You have no idea what you're fucking talking about," she hisses. "No _fucking _idea. I know what I'm doing here, I know _why_ and I don't have to explain that to you. If you don't want to be here, fucking leave. I don't need flakey assholes who jump at the first sign of something new and shiny getting in my way. I need people that are going to be loyal and stick to what they're fucking doing."

She pants out a breath and then smacks the wall. Quinn looks at her and quirks an eyebrow. She doesn't believe a word that Santana's saying and they both know it.

"Fuck!" Santana shouts and leaves before Quinn can say anything else.

/

She heads as far away from where she needs to be as possible, a bathroom, almost at the back of the building where she can't even hear the event anymore apart from a few low rumbles every few minutes.

She seriously begins to question if the universe hates her when it's not empty and the only person inside is the last person she wants to see.

"Okay... okay... thanks, Marley... Tell Angie that I will call her when I get a freaking chance, okay?" A laugh. "Ugh, fine. I'll call her when I get out of here. Oh..."

Santana doesn't look at her. She figures that walking back out will just make her look stupid so she steps towards the mirror. She sees the body beside her turn to look in her direction and ignores it in favor of staring down into the basin and debating whether to wash her hands.

"Marley, can I call you back?"

Santana hears her shut off the phone and slip it into the pocket of her blazer. Her entire body turns to face Santana and it's only then that Santana glances up in the mirror and catches sight of her. Her expression is soft and concerned and Santana just looks into the mirror without a word.

"Are you okay?" Pierce asks. Her eyes are narrow and curious.

Santana turns the water on and reaches for the soap. She laughs a little as she rubs it into her hands enough that she's sure she'll probably have a rash in the morning. Pierce just watches her quietly, not saying anything. She hands Santana a paper towel when she's done and Santana takes it wordlessly before tossing it into the trash.

"Are you okay?" Pierce asks again when Santana still just stands there looking in the mirror. A hand reaches for her and presses against the middle of her back, gentle and firm at the same time. It forces Santana's eyes directly beside her until they can stare straight into blue.

The gaze is so strong that Santana feels like it should be hurting her or turning her to stone.

But maybe, just maybe, it starts to break her a little bit.

She lets her head shake from side until Pierce's eyes soften just a little bit more.

Her mouth opens to say something but the air is cut through by the shrill tone of Pierce's cellphone ringing. Santana vaguely recognizes the ring tone but can't name it. Long fingers pull the phone from Pierce's pocket and she glances down at it with irritation. A low groan leaves her mouth and she taps the vibrating entity in her palm before looking at Santana with an apologetic smile.

"I have to go," she whispers softly. Santana nods in understanding but Pierce's eyes brighten as she smiles softly. "Have a better day," she whispers and it feels so much like the first time they met that Santana's breath stops. "Goodbye, Miss Lopez."

The door closes after her a second later, leaving Santana with nothing but feelings of warmth and confusion, and the lingering touch of a hand against her back.

/

Quinn is still there the next morning and Santana doesn't know what else to do except avoid her.

They return to Columbus and Santana instructs Sugar to not let anyone in her office regardless of how much of an emergency it is. She says that she has work to do but all she does is sit in her office all day, trying to do her job and failing because she can't stop thinking about Quinn's words.

Nobody bothers her but she still spends the whole day on edge. Normally, she knows that she'd be calling Puckerman or Mike and bringing them in here to make it go away.

It must say something that she needs the release but doesn't want them to give it to her.

It's not until later that night, when the building is empty, that she locks her door and closes her blinds. She stumbles around for a few moments, never having really done this alone before, and gathers her skirt up around her waist before she sits back behind her desk. She kicks off her heels as one leg raises to rest atop the surface.

Her fingers find her center a few seconds later and her eyes flutter closed as her imagination runs free.

She tries her hardest to keep her head clear, to concentrate on the overwhelming sensation she instantly feels pulsing inside of her, but fails as it thinks of blue, blue, blue.

When she comes, she chokes on a breathless moan as her hands reach out, desperate for purchase on something that isn't there.

It's more than enough. It's almost too much.

/

They head to DC the next day for a fundraiser. Santana continues to avoid Quinn and sits with Sugar, discussing future plans for the campaign schedule.

She can feel Quinn's eyes on her but ignores her, concentrating on Sugar as she outlines all the invitations they've had while Santana books them into her schedule. It's probably one of her least favorite things to do—a lot of the time it's like she's trying to predict the future—but it's one of those things that has to be done.

It's exhausting and Sugar's still awkwardly sitting on her bed while she gussies herself up again. She groans the entire time, pissed because they've still got three hundred and forty-eight emails to go and pissed because she has to wear yet another dress that guys can leer into.

"Are you okay, Miss Lopez?" Sugar asks, and Santana's too busy attempting to do her make up with no glasses on to answer. It's not until Sugar takes the brush from her hand and looks down at her expectantly that she even glances at her. Sugar smiles and leans down to look at her. "Here, let me..." she says and reaches forward to brush the make up under her eyes.

Santana lets her and sighs. "I can usually do it," she mutters proudly.

"I know," Sugar smiles. "But you're stressed."

Santana snorts. "How'd you guess that?" she asks sarcastically.

Sugar just smiles and blots some tissue against her cheek. "It's my job," she says. "It's what I'm paid to do. I'm your assistant, Miss Lopez. I'm here to assist you and remember all the things you forget. To do all the crappy jobs you don't want to do." Her eyes dart up to Santana, her face guilty. "Not that I'm not happy to do it. I'm grateful for this opport—"

"Santana."

Sugar frowns. "Sorry?"

Something sparks in Santana's brain, a memory, and not much else seems to matter than this small detail. "Call me Santana."

Sugar's smile is wide and overjoyed.

"Okay," she nods. "Then, Santana, I think you're ready."

/

She lets Sugar walk the press line with her while Quinn walks ahead of them with Will. Santana doesn't look in either of their directions, just speaks to more reporters before she heads inside and takes her seat.

Will makes a grand entrance with Emma. They're trying to make an impression around DC still, and people nod and smile in their direction in a way that Santana knows will make Will happy.

More money means more time. More time means that their chance of winning just keeps getting bigger.

He makes a speech and people applaud. The food is bad and all the people want a piece of Santana, to know what her plans are in more depth. She repeats the same line to all of them and is grateful that Sugar's started to figure out when she's had enough. She somehow manages to make her cellphone ring so that Santana can excuse herself and take a minute.

It's okay for a while but, after five hours, she's had enough.

The crowds start to dwindle, people start to leave. Sugar remains, loyal at her side, and they watch as Will finally leaves with Emma.

Puck wanders over to them, his face red and sweaty. He gives her a smirk and she looks away from him as he steps just a little closer.

"Boss wants a staff meeting," he says.

Santana just nods.

/

He's already in the conference room when she gets there. His tie is loose and hanging around his neck, his top buttons undone, and Santana frowns as he rubs clean one of their dry wipe boards.

"Governor?" she tries wearily, stepping close to him.

He glances back at her. "Take a seat," he says and then snaps back around to her. "No, actually, grab a pen. Pass out some paper."

Santana looks around at how he's set up the room, like a classroom, not nearly big enough seats for everyone. She sighs and moves closer, taking the paper and dumping some on every table.

She grabs a box of pens and starts handing them out to everyone as they walk in the door. She pauses when Quinn walks in and offers her the box instead. She leaves and Santana glances up to see as Will urges her to sit at the front beside Puck and Lauren.

"Okay, come on, everyone," Will says sternly. "Settle down, I want to get started. The sooner we do this the quicker we all get to go to bed."

Everyone sits in their seats and looks up at him. Santana perches on a table away from the rest and narrows her eyes through her glasses as the suspense drives her crazy.

Will leans forward and writes something on the board in front of him. When he stands back, the word '_MAKEOVER' _is written there proudly.

He smiles at them. "The old stuff is getting stale, guys," he says with a shrug. Santana glares at him but he isn't looking at her. Quinn is and the expression instantly removes itself from Santana's face. She concentrates back on Will. "I want to revitalize this campaign. Tonight."

Santana always knew that she was asking for trouble working for an ex-teacher.

Now she's going to learn just how much.

/

"That won't work," she says for about the fortieth time in thirty minutes.

Will stops his elaborate explanation of his next idea and narrows his eyes at her. "How do you know that?"

Santana sighs. "Because, you forget, that I was employed by you for a year before this campaign even started. I did research. I contacted experts. I have tables and charts, proof that stuff like this doesn't work. People see right through it."

Will's shoulders slump. Santana hears a snort from somewhere close by.

"Then what do you suggest?" he asks and the question is genuine.

Santana sighs and slaps her hands against her thighs. "I suggest that you keep the old campaign look, you hit 'em harder, you get more cash, and then we'll talk."

"But..."

Santana groans and grabs his arm to pull him to the side. He surprisingly comes willingly. "Will," she says. "A few posters won't help."

"But..." and the look on his face is lost, desperate almost, more than it was a second ago. "Santana... we need something..."

She struggles to smile and places both her hands on his biceps. He's tense.

"I'll think of something," she nods at him to reaffirm herself. "But not right now. In the morning," she nods. "These people need sleep." His body relaxes and he nods in agreement. She copies the action, trying not to show too much relief. "Send them to bed. You should go to bed too. I, however, have emails to reply to."

She lets go and he doesn't do anything but continue nodding.

She leaves before anyone else and doesn't turn back.

/

She can't concentrate.

She sits in her room for an hour but then leaves when her brain can't seem to manage to do anything productive. It's like it's blocked—full of something else—and she sighs before getting up and grabbing her jacket.

She walks back to the conference room and finds Puck and Lauren watching football while Quinn, Mike and Sugar all sit around the room, working.

"I'm going out," she tells them. Quinn and Sugar both look up, Puck tries to turn his head. "I'm going to get something to eat."

Quinn stands up. "I'll come with—"

Santana cuts through her with a shake of her head. "No, no..." she says. "Stay here. I need some time to clear my head. I'll bring you something back."

She doesn't argue and just sits back down.

Santana sighs in relief.

/

Her feet lead her to a diner.

She used to come here all the time when she was in college. At three in the morning, it was always still loud and full and the perfect place to escape to when there was a party on her dorm floor.

She's glad to see that not much has changed. It's still busy and loud and she gets lost in that memory as she steps over to the counter and orders herself a coffee while she decides what to get.

Everything was always so good here.

She can't remember the last time that she ate a greasy burger and fries.

"So you're indecisive..."

Her head spins around so quickly it almost rips from her neck. Her eyes light up in recognition when she finally finds her and blushes when a soft laugh leaves Pierce's mouth. She smirks and Santana just stares, wondering how this can be.

"I like that," Pierce goes on. "It makes it easier to believe that you were full of complete turmoil before you decided to sell me out to Jacob Ben Israel."

Santana's jaw drops and it's not until she sees Pierce smile a little wider and laugh that she realizes she's joking again. She smiles despite herself and shakes her head, turning back to the counter. It's not even a minute before she looks back at Pierce and shakes her head again.

Pierce just smiles a bigger, better smile, and blinks at her slowly. Santana sighs and takes in the sight of her. She looks exactly like she did when she was at the bar in New Hampshire. There's a large book in front of her that looks like a diary, a laptop, half a dozen pens and pencils of different colors and sizes. What's most different is the pair of thick-framed glasses that sit atop the counter beside her cup of coffee and half-eaten burger. Santana takes it all in in content silence until Pierce's brow quirks up and Santana realizes that she's staring.

She looks away quickly and settles in a seat just around the counter from Pierce. She sighs and looks back up to the menu she has memorized before trying to act indifferent... but then something clicks.

She narrows her eyes and turns her gaze to Pierce.

"Don't take this the wrong way..." she starts. "but are you stalking me?"

Pierce laughs, a full-bodied, deep-bellied laugh. A smile paints across her face and Santana finds herself smiling too, regardless of how much she doesn't want to.

"Shouldn't you already know that I have an apartment up the street?" Pierce asks smartly once she's settled down. Santana feels her cheeks pink. "So, I'm pretty sure _I _should be the one asking that question. I mean, not many people would pick this place this early in the morning. Especially a girl from Ohio."

Santana just ignores the teasing and sighs. "I've been around."

Pierce snorts. "So I've heard."

Santana glares at her but can't actually find it in her to want to kick Pierce's ass like she would anyone else. The glare disappears when Pierce just giggles and smiles as she tugs her hat more comfortably over her head.

The server steps over to her a second later and Santana can feel Pierce's eyes as she orders food for the others. He asks her if she's staying and she's about to tell him no before Pierce cuts through her.

"She's staying," she says and Santana shoots her another disapproving glare. Pierce's smile is shyer this time. She leans forward and when Santana shifts a little, she stops.

"I didn't mean it like that," she continues softly. "I just mean that... I've heard a lot about you."

The words prickle against her skin. They're not particularly new words for her to hear, in fact they're probably the words that she hears most often. She feels her defenses come back up and she doesn't look directly at the woman beside her. She juts her chin towards her and lets her eyes become hard. It's almost difficult to do.

"Whatever you've heard..." she starts and the words don't feel as aggressive as they usually do. "It's not true."

There's silence long enough that the server steps over to them and refills their coffee cups. Santana watches as Pierce acknowledges and thanks him by name. When he leaves, their eyes meet carefully.

Santana can't read the expression on her face.

"So, you're not a political genius then?" Pierce asks a few seconds later. Santana doesn't respond. Pierce runs a finger around the lip of her coffee cup. "Someone told me that you were the foremost expert on constitutional law. Is that not true?" Her blue eyes never waver, never tease. They only question. "I heard that you took the Bar exam for fun..." Santana feels herself begin to smile and she turns to see that Pierce is smiling too. She gives Santana a look. "And, to be honest, that's just so ridiculous that I _need _it to be true."

Santana's expression turns coy and she peers down into her coffee cup like the dregs might tell her something. For a minute, she kind of wishes she drank tea because then maybe they would.

"The Bar is not as bad as people make it out to be," she comments a few seconds later. Pierce instantly bursts out laughing. Santana frowns. "What?"

Pierce shakes her head from side to side before holding up her hands. It's then that Santana takes in her appearance. She has her woolen beanie on, a beat-up long-sleeved New York Rangers t-shirt, and some baggy sweatpants. A dark green cardigan falls off of one of her shoulder and, when Santana glances down, she can see a pair of Nikes wrapped around the stool she sits on.

"You're something else... you know that?"

Santana's eyes snap back and find Pierce watching her stare. She blushes, caught, and looks away. The strangest sensation fills her body and she clears her throat hoping that it might make the feeling go away. It doesn't and she straightens her back to steady herself.

"You don't know anything about me," Santana mumbles and Pierce smiles knowingly.

"I know some," she mutters, just as quiet. Santana refuses to look at her for fear of giving herself away somehow. It doesn't stop Pierce's gaze from burning into her left cheek. "I know that you're twenty-eight. I know that you're a genius, that you're an expert in constitutional law. I know that you work for Will Schuester as his campaign manager, and that you were his Chief-of-Staff before that. I know that you worked for Representative Janice Wydell before him. I know that you're from Cleveland, Ohio."

Santana sits there silently and sets her jaw in a place where she knows it won't shake and change her hard expression. She glances away and beckons over the server for more coffee. He comes over and pours her another cup before leaving. It's then that Pierce begins to talk again.

"I know that, if I want to win, then I need you..." Santana's heart flutters and she's not sure why. She's too busy processing the sensation to ponder its existence. "I know that, when I agreed to do this for a dead man's wife, she told me I needed to get you on my team if I wanted to win. I know that she told me that her husband tried to get you on his team too, but Will Schuester got there first."

Santana stops. "Wait. What?"

Her mind rushes back to the amount of times that Will's told her she wouldn't even have a job in politics if it wasn't for him, that he was the only one dumb enough to take her on and let her run his campaign. She keeps that there, ever-present on her mind, when she glances over at Pierce.

She finds her brow quizzical and confused. "Everybody in the party was fighting over you, right?"

Santana blinks.

"Excuse me?"

Pierce bites her lip. Santana ignores it.

"Mrs. Ryan told me a story. Something about Justice Greenfield and how he told her father that he thought you were an outspoken little twit who should learn her place but that you'd make an awesome campaign manager someday," Pierce begins to explain and Santana just listens, not sure what's more shocking: the fact that Horace Greenfield, the grumpiest man on earth, thought she'd make a good campaign manager, or that he spoke about her to the head of the DNC. "Apparently, when you left him and went to work for Wydell, everyone was already figuring out how to get you." Santana's jaw drops momentarily. Pierce shrugs and leans forward. "I have to be honest... I'm not sure how Schuester managed to talk you into it."

For a second, Santana isn't either.

It only takes her a second to realize that she's been played. She sighs and looks directly ahead of her, attempting to not look too murderous. It doesn't work and she hears Pierce mutter out a little "oh..." a minute or two later.

It's not long after that that she realizes that it wouldn't have mattered anyway. She would have gone with Will back then regardless. There was no one better. Hudson has no idea what he's doing, Whittier's out of date, Suarez and Greaves are useless and Ryan was brilliant but he wasn't a President. He was a showman. He could have made it to the end, riding on his father-in-law's coattails, but if he ever won, he would have been useless.

That thought and reaffirmation makes her feel a little better, but not really.

Not now.

Not with this woman sat in front of her.

Pierce must notice her discomfort because she leans forward again.

"Want to know what else I know about you?"

Santana turns to her and shoots her a look that's neither a yes or a no.

Pierce chuckles a little bit before speaking. "I know that you and I have something in common," she says with a nod.

Santana looks at her reproachfully. As far as she can tell, they have very little in common.

Pierce leans closer again.

"I know that both of us are women, way out of our league and in a fucking sea of assholes who want us to fail..." She nods and smiles at herself. "But I know that both of us are too damn stubborn to let that stop us from trying, that we're not going to let those idiots influence us because we can make our own damn choices. Am I wrong?"

Santana waits but then she smiles and shakes her head.

Pierce gives her a beaming smile. Santana's eyes flick down to her lips slow enough to be seen.

Blue eyes narrow for a second, but it's barely noticeable.

"That's what I thought," she mutters happily.

Santana watches as she takes a proud of sip of her coffee and then toys with the diary in front of her with a silly grin on her face. The blush in her cheeks makes Santana feel warm, welcome. She doesn't understand how this woman here, in sweats and a hockey shirt, is the same woman who wants to be President of the United States. It shouldn't seem possible but it does. Brittany S. Pierce is an enigma, something that Santana usually hates. Except, right now, all she feels is so drawn to her that she doesn't know what she's doing.

"Representative Pierce..."

Blue eyes look at her sharply. "Brittany."

Santana gives her a look. "Representative Pierce," she repeats.

Pierce rolls her eyes a little before sighing. "Yes, Miss Lopez?"

Santana looks down into her hands before glancing back up at Pierce carefully. She needs to concentrate.

"What you said about how they were fighting over me..." she starts before her eyes narrow. "Was that true?"

Pierce's eyes narrow, then soften, then shine a little. Santana watches them carefully, looking for the lie.

"They still are," Pierce whispers.

She doesn't find it.

/

She leaves the diner a while later when the server presents her with her order. She says goodbye to Pierce and jumps in a cab back to the hotel.

She expects them to have all gone to bed by now but they're still there when she gets back, watching a movie on the TV and drinking beer.

Puck glances back at her when she walks inside and narrows his eyes. "You okay?" he asks softly. "Did something happen?"

Santana narrows her eyes and shakes her head. "No..." She tries to sound believable. "Here. I got you food. I'm going to bed."

She turns but stops when she hears someone following after her. When she looks, she finds Puck, just reaching out to grab her arm. He pulls back before he manages to and she glares at him in question.

"Do you want me to walk you to your room?" he asks. A smirk crosses his features and she lets the glare sink further into her face at his shamelessness.

She shakes her head and tries not to scoff, failing miserably.

"No, Puckerman," she says quietly. "No, I don't."

/

As the days go by, there's a part of her that wants to walk up to Will and ask him why he felt the need to lie to her.

She doesn't and, instead, she stands beside him and helps him as he acts like the perfect candidate.

Thinking back, she can't really remember how Will got her to agree to this job. She just remembers how he'd come up to her and knew her name. He was the Governor of Ohio and Janice Wydell was a crappy congresswoman with no idea what she was doing. He said that he'd heard of her, that she was a pain in the ass and he liked a challenge. There was a part of her that was so sick of Wydell being so useless that, regardless of anything else, it felt like a way to escape.

When he mentioned Presidential campaigns and changing the world, he had her sold. He said all the right things. She was wooed. Pathetically and easily wooed.

He was the Governor of Ohio and she was a pain in the ass that everyone struggled to deal with. No one wanted to work with her, he'd said, but here he was offering her a job running his office and his Presidential campaign.

She would have been dumb to refuse.

Right?

Now she's not so sure.

She tries not to think about it.

/

They're in Iowa, or New Hampshire, or somewhere.

It's got to the point where every hotel, every town, every city looks the same. Every person in every crowd asks the same question, every reporter wants to know the same thing as the last.

She's sitting in front of another hotel bartender who looks the same as every other one of his kind, staring into a glass of scotch, when Quinn finally catches up with her.

Santana doesn't try to escape. She doesn't do anything but sit there.

"You've been acting really weird," Quinn tells her softly. "Whatever it is that's... you know. I didn't mean to upset you, okay?"

Santana doesn't say anything but does finally take a sip of her scotch after an hour of holding it in her hand. It's warm and kind of gross but if it gives her the courage she needs she doesn't care.

"I want to say one thing, okay?" she says and Quinn nods instantly. "I'm here because, despite what you think, Will Schuester asked me to do this job and I said I would. At that moment, he was the best candidate for the job. I honestly believe that and I thought you did too." She pauses. "And maybe you don't think that now and _maybe_ he's notthe best candidate for the job anymore... but I have a responsibility to go through with this until the very end. Do you understand that? I have a responsibility."

Quinn looks at her for a moment but then, much to Santana's relief, she nods.

"I do," she whispers.

Santana brings the glass to her mouth and downs the rest of the drink quickly.

"Good," she says, gathering up her things. "Thank you."

/

When they step off the jet in Vermont, it's the first time that Santana's noticed that Fall is coming.

It's cold and the leaves have turned from bright green to red and orange. Santana shivers in the early morning air as she wraps her jacket further around her and follows the rest of the team over to the group of cars waiting for them.

"What do we have today?" Will asks as he checks through his phone.

Santana walks quicker to catch up with him and lifts her folder to check their itinerary. "We have meetings all day," she tells him. "We have a visit to the Air National Guard Base, the Burlington School board, a few meet and greets that we haven't confirmed but it would be great if we can make it to, there's a high school visit, a photo-op and dinner with the Mayor... It's a pretty full day, Sir."

Will nods. "Anything I should know?"

She shakes her head and sighs, looking down the itinerary again. "It's a lot of education stuff," she comments. "We could work on your education plan on the way, if you want?"

Will glances up and her and shakes his head. "I'm a teacher," he says, just like he always does when she broaches this subject. "I've told you before. I don't need a plan. I know what I'm talking about."

"But..." Santana starts.

Will looks at her and gives her a smug smile that never means good things.

"Santana," he says. "Trust me."

He gets in the car before she can say anything else.

She doesn't think it would make a difference anyway.

/

It doesn't make it any less shitty when it comes back and bites him in the ass.

/

"Governor Schuester, you say that the government needs to put more funding into education but the current administration has cut millions of dollars to state school boards across the country. This means that many schools don't have enough money for equipment or textbooks. If you were to be our next President, what actions would you take to ensure that more money is spent to rectify this and ensure that children get the education they deserve?"

Santana's first reaction is to breathe out all the air in her lungs before gasping it back in again. She feels Sugar turn to her with wide eyes as Puck turns away to find something to hit. Santana waits for his reaction and watches carefully as every bit of panic crosses across Will's face as he eyes the press behind the crowd.

"I..." he starts. "I don't know."

Santana's eyes widen as the crowd titters into a mass of whispers and noise. Her fingers rip her glasses from her face and she shakes her head as the sound of cameras flashing becomes the only sound in the room.

She can't even find it in her to curse. She just looks over to where Quinn is standing in her usual place, off to the side of the stage, vetting where the next question comes from. Her hazel eyes are expressionless. They never leave Santana's direction, waiting for her signal.

Santana gives it a second later and then leaves the room.

/

He doesn't speak to anyone on the way out, just heads straight to the car so they can get to their next appointment.

He doesn't say anything to her for the rest of the day and she's glad for that because she's mad, she's really fucking mad because he'll never learn. It's okay that he's trying, that he wants to "re-energize" the campaign and give himself a better image, but she wishes that, sometimes he understood that there are fundamental things about this campaign that he can't bullshit over with charm or a new poster.

Despite what he thinks, people actually care about education, about where their money is going, what happens to their wives and daughters. Despite what he thinks, this isn't a game.

Of course, he doesn't realize that, and when she gets a phone call from Sugar at past 11pm telling her that he wants to see her, she expects the worse.

/

He's sitting on an armchair in front of an open fire when she gets to his suite.

He's still wearing his suit, fresh from dinner with the mayor, but he's pulled the tie loose and discarded the jacket. He looks pissed off, worried, angry, a million different colors of his fucked-up spectrum of emotions, and she decides to stay by the door because of that.

There's an open bottle of gin on the table in front of him, a glass in his hand. It rests on the buttons of his suit vest, rising and falling with every angry breath.

"You can wipe that look off your face," he says when his eyes finally flash to her.

She narrows her eyes but then forces her face to be blank and placid. She just wants this over with. She just wants to be able to go back to her room and work.

"What look would that be, Sir?" she asks.

Will's eyes trace her body, from her face, all the way down to her heels and back again, before he shakes his head at her. "That look like you're disappointed in me. You have no right to be disappointed in me for something that's your fault."

A smile breaks its way onto her face and she clears her throat. "My fault?"

He stands up quickly, tugging down his vest and resting his hand on the mantle to prop himself up. "You let me down," he says carefully. "You keep letting me down and I'm sick of it."

_'You're sick of it_?' is the first thing that springs to her mind. She's glad she has enough control not to say it out loud.

Instead, she just stands there quietly. It doesn't work well in her favor.

"I'm guessing you're not saying anything because you _know_ I'm right, that you're getting lazy and letting me down, and that you're on thin ice, huh?" He nods.

His eyes are dark and angry but, strangely, for the first time, she doesn't really feel threatened by them. She still feels angry but the anger feels like it's new and there for a whole different reason than Will Schuester being an idiot. She feels betrayed, hurt, and she swallows away the words she wants to say.

"No, Sir," she says. "I'm just trying to work out what it is that I've done that has made you feel this way."

Will swoops in on her like a bat and she flinches but quickly reigns herself back in. "You and your sub-par work has probably put the continuance in this campaign in jeopardy today. You are getting lazy, you are doing less work, you don't even look like you _care _anymore. You've left me unprepared on more than one occasion and it means that I'm put out there like bait for the press to rip me to pieces. You decide things and don't tell me. Make me out to be an idiot in front of my staff—Tell me, Miss Lopez, do you want this job?"

Her eyes glance at him and the anger in her stomach flares like a smoldering ember rather than the sharp sparks she's felt before.

"Yes, Sir, I do..." she tells him bitterly. "But, with all due respect, I am only able to do my work if you allow me to. If you're unprepared, it's because _you _didn't listen. If I am doing less work, it's perhaps because there is little else for me to do after you have refused to listen to me." He stops and looks at her but, strangely, he lets her finish. "I am your campaign manager, Governor Schuester. They are not voting for _me_, they're voting for you."

He narrows eyes. "You are out of line."

She laughs. "I am perfectly _in _line, Sir. I will not stand here and let you say these things about me when it's quite simply clear that the fault is all your own. This is _your _campaign. _You_ want to be the leader of this country. Get a damn backbone and do some work. Get a fucking clue. I won't always be here to clean up your mess."

He almost looks shocked. He moves closer to her until he can bend down until they're almost nose-to-nose.

"Exactly," Will says lowly and clearly. "You won't be here. If this carries on, I'll make _fucking _sure of it." He shakes his head at her and she can feel his breath, stale and stinking of alcohol, warm on her face. He smirks at her. "You forget, Santana, that without me, you'd be nothing right now. No one else wanted you. No one else would take you because you're nothing but a wise ass little shit who's more trouble that she's worth. So you _better_ start behaving yourself or you'll be seeing first hand how little anyone wants to you."

Any other time, the words would scare her. They would make her swear and insist that he couldn't do that and that she would fight him to the grave. But now, all she can hear is the words she heard just days before and the blue, honest eyes that reassured her of the truth in them.

"No," she says defiantly. "I won't. Not until _you _start actually trying and mean it for once."

His eyes grow wide and for a second he looks scared. He glances down at her and she knows she has him when she sees his jaw shake a little. "You really want to risk that?" he asks.

She takes a step into him until her chest bumps up against his. "Do you?"

His eyes grow wide and then it's her turn to smirk. She has him and he knows it. His face transforms from worry, to anger, to panic, and she sees him raise his hand to her as his whole body tenses. He puts it back down a second later, thinking better of whatever it was he was going to do.

"Get out," he spits.

She puffs out her chest and steps in close to him again. "Fucking gladly," she whispers. "Call me if you want to win."

He has no response.

She walks out.

/

At first, she tries to go back to her room and do some work.

She makes it an hour—an hour of elevated, angry silence with herself—before she realizes that she's making herself crazy and she needs something to calm her down.

When neither room service nor the front desk answer, she puts her blazer back on and slips back into her heels before grabbing her briefcase and heading downstairs.

The whole place is empty, silent, and she wonders why they picked this hotel when it's not exactly the kind of thing that they're used to. It's a log cabin, in the middle of Vermont, filled with fireplaces and plush, comfy couches. There's barely enough rooms and everything seems to shut down before 10pm. The front desk is void of life, most of the lights are off.

It's not until she hears a fire crackling from behind the heavy dark wood doors leading to the bar, that she figures there might be some hope left.

She doesn't wait before opening the door and peers inside before blinking at what she sees.

Before she does anything else, she laughs.

"Are you serious?"

The lone figure at the bar turns around quickly and a smile appears on their face just as fast. Santana wonders if she's going crazy for a second before she blinks and the woman is still sitting there when her eyes open.

"Well, well, well..." Pierce says around a chuckle. "What are the chances?"

Santana rolls her eyes and then steps inside, closing the door behind her. A smile tugs at her lips as she moves in closer to where Pierce sits, just like she always does, surrounded by her work.

"Ok. Seriously..." Santana says. "Are you stalking me, Representative Pierce?"

"Brittany," is the instant response. It makes Santana's smile turn into a grin. "And, no, again, Miss Lopez, I'm not stalking you. You?"

Santana snorts. "Am I stalking you?" she asks. "I have better things to do with my time."

Pierce nods teasingly. "Yes, exactly. I'm sure you do and all of them probably have everything to do with why you look so pissed."

Santana doesn't answer her and instead just hefts her briefcase up onto the bar before slipping onto a stool along the bar from her and opening things from it.

"You okay?" Pierce asks softly a few moments later and Santana glances at her before shaking her head. Pierce's brow furrows and she reaches up to remove the glasses that sit on her face. "What's wrong?" she asks and Santana swallows against how genuine the worry in her voice is.

She shakes it off. "It's nothing. I just had a bad day and I need a drink but it would seem the bar is closed. Whatever. It doesn't matter."

Santana waits for the bombardment of questions, for her to ask what it is that's made her day so bad or, worse, to comment on Will's disastrous day of politics. She glances around at her when she doesn't say anything and finds Pierce just watching her quietly before the woman leans forward on her stool and grabs something from behind the bar.

It's a glass and Santana watches with a mix of intrigue and confusion as she sets it in front of her on the bar before reaching behind her open laptop and pulling out an already used glass and a bottle of scotch from behind the screen. She shoots Santana a smirk before placing her used glass beside the clean one and pouring them both a generous amount of the amber liquid.

"Cheers," Pierce says as she takes her own glass and Santana just stares before taking the other one slowly.

She looks at it dubiously before narrowing her eyes. "You didn't _steal_ that did you?" she asks.

Pierce quirks her eyebrow and takes a sip from her glass. "What exactly do you think I am, Miss Lopez?" she scoffs before laughing at the look on Santana's face. "I've been here a couple of hours. I asked the bartender to leave me the bottle."

Santana finally takes a sip when she hears that and likes how it adds to the warmth in her stomach. "I didn't have you down as a scotch drinker," she comments.

Pierce's smirk is coy. "I'm full of surprises," she says and Santana doesn't know how to respond so she doesn't.

Instead, they just sit there in silence for too long, drinking their scotch and not doing much else. After a while, it gets too much for Santana and she clears her throat.

"What brings you to Burlington, Vermont, anyway?" she asks. "I don't see the entirety of your staff filling the bar and screaming until early hours of the morning."

Brittany laughs at that. "I'm here for a fundraiser," she says. "And I sense some hostility. What problems do you have with my staff filling bars and having fun?"

Santana looks at her like she's crazy. "Shouldn't they be working?" she asks like it should be obvious.

"They're already working all day," Pierce responds. "Why should they have to work all night too?" Santana doesn't answer. Pierce rolls her eyes. "I mean, they're here to help me. They're working all hours of the day for me. I _should _be working while they have fun, you know? They deserve it. They work hard."

The words instantly make Santana think of Will, upstairs, demanding that his staff come in for meetings in the middle of the night, doing all the work while he sleeps and beds random women. She thinks of all their staff and wonders if Will even knows half of their names. She bets that Brittany knows the names of all of her staff and probably their families. She probably knows the name of the bartender and the lady at the front desk.

She looks away and down into the glass in front of her, suddenly ashamed.

"Anyway..." Pierce says. "I came here with my campaign manager and a few other people. They're all asleep upstairs. It's been a long week. I think the traveling is starting to catch up with them."

Santana nods in sympathy. "So, I'm guessing the reason _you're_ up at all hours of the morning is jet lag then," she teases and shrugs. "You'll get used to it after a while."

Pierce laughs, another of those loud, happy, full-bodied laughs that make Santana feel like the very core of her is being shaken. She takes a deep breath to steady herself and scrunches her face in confusion.

"Sorry," Pierce says when she catches sight of Santana's face. "Sorry, I'm just..."

"What?"

She tries to calm herself but when she looks back up at Santana, her eyes are still bright, her cheeks still red, as she grins. "How much did your researchers actually find out about me other than the fact that I got lots of money for being born?" She shrugs. "I mean, I assume that these people spent days trailing through every single thing about me, right?"

The question catches Santana off-guard and nags at her own sneaking concerns at the same time. She wonders if anyone has ever really known anything about Brittany S. Pierce. She wonders if anyone ever will. Her mind remembers the back page of her notebook for a second, scribbled with random facts about Pierce that she's snatched away over the past few weeks, and the dossier she still carries everywhere with her.

It makes her wonder what more there could be to her? How much can one person do in thirty years?

"They found out enough," Santana lies.

Pierce gives her a look that tells Santana that she doesn't believe her. She takes a sip of her drink and Santana notices how her eyes slow with each mouthful and look at her slower. She tries not to watch but can't help it. She feels her own eyes slowing down too.

Pierce sets down her glass and turns on her stool to face Santana's direction. She props her chin up on the bar with her elbow and closes one eye with curiosity. "Like what?" she asks.

Santana drinks to kill time.

"What do you mean?"

Pierce smiles. "What do you know about me?"

Santana shrugs. She's more concerned about what she doesn't know. It makes her feel unsettled but she answers the question anyway. She figures it might make Pierce tell her more.

"You live in New York, in Brooklyn..." she starts timidly. "You went to Wellesley College and majored in English Literature with a minor in Women's and Gender Studies. You were in the Peace Corps after that and then you joined Greenpeace. You started a Women's charity and went back to school to get a Master's in Public Administration from CCNY. Your father is Franklin Etheridge Baker. Your mother's name is Annabel and she's from Georgia. She's a teacher which is why I'm guessing that you didn't go to school until you were high school age. I'm guessing you were home-schooled."

Santana feels a rush of excitement when Pierce's face changes at the mention of her mother but goes on anyway.

"You can speak a few foreign languages," Santana shrugs. "You went to summer school at Middlebury and studied Russian. And you went to UW-Madison South Asia Summer Language Institute two years running but I don't know what you studied." She clears her throat when Pierce moves over a few seats until she's sat right beside Santana. Santana's eyes sweep down to take note of her blouse and the pencil skirt that leads down to her black pumps. When she looks back to Pierce's face, she finds the woman watching her with a smirk. She blushes but carries on ignoring it. "You've never had a permanent address for more than eighteen months except for when you were in school... You've never been married but there are rumors." Pierce's brow quirks like she's intrigued and Santana tries not to smile. "I can't think of anything else."

Pierce nods and Santana waits for her response. She sips the rest of her drink before reaching back over to the bottle and refilling both of their glasses. Santana watches her and smiles in thanks before Pierce gives her a bright smile and touches their glasses together quickly before looking at Santana for a few more minutes.

It's like she's waiting for something to appear, or to be said... like she's waiting for a sign and Santana doesn't know what sign that is or if she's the one who's supposed to give it, so she just sits there and doesn't do anything.

"Twenty-two," is the first thing Pierce finally says.

Santana blinks in confusion. "Excuse me?"

It earns her a smile "Twenty-two," Pierce repeats. "I can speak twenty-two foreign languages."

Santana laughs at that. "Bullshit," she says. "That's impossible."

"Not all of them are fluent but still," she shrugs. "Test me."

Santana scoffs. "How would I even do that?" she asks. "I can speak like... five other languages."

"Which ones?"

Santana shrugs again. She tries to remember which ones. "Like, Spanish... and German. A little Italian, I guess. And, of course, Latin and Ancient Greek."

She nods like they're obvious.

Pierce nods with her and purses her lips like she's trying not to laugh. "Of course. Everyone has to know at least one dying language." Santana scoffs at her and she chuckles. "But, I see your point, so you'll just have to take my word for it."

Santana's heart sinks at the words and she rolls her eyes before turning back to her glass.

Pierce nudges her until she looks up. "But I will tell you that I _do_ know two of the same languages as you, though. You'll just have to guess which."

Santana smirks because she already knows that Pierce speaks Spanish. She forgets that fact when she realizes that, after Russian, Spanish and Hebrew, there are nineteen other languages that Pierce speaks. In that moment, it's not the what that she's so worried about but the why. She asks Pierce and the woman looks at her before her face turns sly.

"Why don't you tell me?" she asks.

Santana rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever, I know a lot of shit about you but, right now, let's say that I don't. What reason would you have to know twenty-two languages?"

She gets a stare and then a smile. They both make her shift on her chair. "I traveled a lot," she shrugs. For a moment, it's too simple an answer. "Which brings us back to you saying that I have jet lag. I don't have jet lag," she says. "I am incapable of getting jet lag anymore."

Santana doesn't know what to say so she just sits there and stares at the woman beside her unsure if she's intimidated or impressed. It's probably a little of both. Pierce must notice because her next smile is warm and welcoming.

She shrugs.

"Truth is that my campaign manager and best friend always thinks that it's easier to get a suite for us to share," she explains in an almost whisper. "Except that I'm a light sleeper and she snores like a damn fog horn. So, that and the fact that I have way, way too much work to do means that I don't sleep much anymore. Or at all, really..."

An awkward laugh leaves her and Santana nods in understanding. Back in the early months of their campaign, it felt like there were never enough hours in the day trying to figure everything out and get everything done. She forgets that the Pierce campaign is barely three months old and that they've been doing this for almost a year. It makes her feel an old pang of guilt for how she treated her before.

She swallows the feeling down. It's too late for that now.

"So, where have you been?" she asks instead as she reaches for her drink.

Pierce shrugs and copies her actions. "I don't know," she says shyly. "Lots of places. Too many to count."

Santana changes tactics, too curious to stop. "Well, how many passports have you had?"

Pierce laughs awkwardly and her cheeks actually go a little pink as she shrugs like a grumpy teenager. "I don't know," she mumbles. "I got my first passport when I was like, two years-old and I don't get the regular passports anyway. I always have to ask for extra pages."

Santana's eyes brighten and she finds herself smiling. "Really?" she asks. "Where have you been most? Where's your favorite place to go?"

Pierce pauses and there's a moment where she looks at Santana so carefully that Santana feels like Pierce can see straight through her. Her eyes flick between Pierce's deep blue eyes and then down to her lips before her stomach flips when Pierce licks her bottom one. It forces Santana's eyes back up again and if Pierce notices her staring she doesn't say anything.

She takes a sip of her drink and Santana watches as she washes it around her mouth before swallowing it.

"Peru," she says after a few minutes. "Or India."

/

They talk for ages.

Well, Pierce talks and Santana listens to her crazy stories about her adventures. She learns that Pierce has been almost everywhere, to every single continent except Antarctica but that she wants to. She learns that, instead of going to school, Pierce spent most of her childhood traveling the world and learning that way.

She discovers that Brittany learned about literature in London, Dublin, Paris and Berlin, that she learned about the weather in the monsoons of India.

"My mom said that everywhere we went was a history lesson," Pierce explains with a smile. "She was really, really surprised when I didn't major in History, actually."

Santana smiles at the good stories and gets wide eyes at the shocking ones. She doesn't realize how lost she is until Pierce is pouring her the fifth scotch of the night and she's close enough that Santana can feel the heat radiating from her.

She's not drunk—four scotches is nothing—but as soon as Pierce shifts her body towards Santana to pour the fifth, she feels dizzy in a way that she's not used to. Her cheeks pink in a way that she rarely lets them do anymore, her eyes wander and her heart picks up, half in panic and half in anticipation.

She swallows because one scotch less and she'd be able to control herself. One scotch less and she wouldn't be glancing down between them to where Pierce's ankles cross and her skirt rides up. One scotch less and she would be remembering that it's not good that she's here, talking to Brittany S. Pierce like she's not the opposition or the only thing standing in the way of success.

One scotch less and she wouldn't be dragging her eyes back up Pierce's body and watching how her tight shirt buttons pull around her chest and the fabric rides up her back as she leans over to get to Santana's glass.

One scotch less and her eyes wouldn't be burning into Pierce's neck or getting caught staring at her mouth.

Pierce doesn't comment on it.

At least not right away.

She just smiles and Santana feels stuck.

/

"So, I've got a question," Pierce mumbles and Santana looks away from where the clock tells her that it's almost four in the morning to glance back at Pierce and then straight back to her mouth.

She reasons that it's just an easier way to listen to what she's saying.

"What's that?" she asks and hates the way that her words slur a little.

It makes Pierce smirk softly. She tugs at the bottom of her skirt and then turns her body until she's at a ninety degree angle to Santana. Her elbow rests against the bar supporting the hand that tangles in her own hair. The blink of her own eyes is slow, almost calculated, and Santana finds herself staring when Pierce doesn't speak.

"Is there a dossier?"

Santana doesn't hear the question. "Hmm?"

Pierce smiles. "Is there a dossier? On me?"

Santana's taken aback by the question but she blinks herself back into concentration before nodding slowly.

Pierce looks uncomfortable with that information. She smiles and her fingers rap against the counter, eyes looking away as her mouth opens ready for the next question. One eye closes a second later and then she glances back at Santana.

"How many pages?" she asks in a whisper.

Santana smiles. "Why do you care?"

"I just do," Pierce says before shoving her spare hand at Santana's shoulder.

Santana smiles and takes a sip of her drink. "Does it matter how big it is?"

"That's what he said," Pierce quips earning her an eye roll. She laughs at herself. "Come on. Tell me."

Santana chuckles. "You can see it if you want."

"I don't want to see it," Pierce says quickly, covering her eyes. "I just want to know how many pages there are. It would suck if there was like... five pages."

Santana rests her elbows on the bar and takes another sip of her drink. She feels powerful, content, and she turns to Pierce with a coy smile and finds her gazing back through her fingers, waiting.

"One hundred and sixteen pages," she says a few moments later. "Including appendices."

Pierce raises her brow and she takes her glass from the bar before sipping at it and resting the glass in her lap. Her expression changes quickly, too quickly. Her eyes darken and her smile falls but there's a glow in her cheeks that's hard to explain. It makes Santana want to reach out and touch her but she doesn't. Instead she clears her throat and looks away.

"One hundred and sixteen pages," Pierce repeats and then there's a beat or two before she says anything else. Santana holds her breath waiting for it. "So now I have another question," she says and her voice is different, lower, better. It makes Santana's throat turn dry and she drinks faster from her glass to quench the thirst. "How much more did you learn about me here tonight than you did from that dossier?"

Brown eyes find deep blue and stop. Santana can't blink, can't breath, can't do much really, except stare at the woman beside who seems so much closer than she did a second ago.

Her face tilts to the side and her eyes narrow. Santana watches them carefully, enthralled and stuck.

"One of the people on my staff wanted to make a dossier on you," Pierce states, the words matter-of-fact. "You and Will and some other people." She shrugs. "But I told him not to, do you know why?"

Santana waits but then shakes her head. Pierce smiles and it's kind, warm.

"I told him not to because I don't need a dossier," she nods quickly. "I don't need a dossier to know what I need to know about you, Santana Lopez..."

The words make Santana panic and she feels her breathing pick up, panting from her, as her head begins to shake from side to side, ready to beg. It wouldn't be the first time, but it's been a while since she's had to. She's never felt so weak.

"Representative Pierce, I..."

"_Brittany_," she cuts through her with a hiss. "_Please_, call me Brittany."

Santana gulps. "Brittany," she whispers. It makes Pierce nod happily. "Please, Brittany..." she continues. "Please, I..."

"You, what?" Brittany says and her voice isn't unkind or hurtful in anyway. That's the worst thing about it. Her voice sounds too good, too close, too perfect.

Santana feels lost.

"I don't need a dossier to tell me that you're probably one of the smartest, most driven, people I will ever meet. I can tell from how tidy you keep your folder," Brittany mutters and she opens the folder in front of Santana on the bar to prove her point. "I don't need a dossier to tell me that everything is personal with you, that it means something." Santana's eyes flutter closed. "I don't need a dossier to tell me that you're beautiful, that you're hurting... that there are things about you that you want no one to know." Santana chokes out a whimper of desperation. "I know that you're scared." She nods sadly. "I know that you're scared..." she repeats and she's so close, so close. "...but that you're brave and that's why I know that if I move close enough to kiss you right now, you won't push me away."

Anger flares through Santana's body, even as the words make her gasp. "You don't know that," she puffs out.

A hand lands on her knee and squeezes. "I do," Brittany promises.

It's not smug or proud. It's honest.

"How?" Santana breathes.

Brittany gives her a sad smile and a thumb strokes over her knee. Santana feels the foundations of something hard and tough built high inside of her begin to shatter when their noses brush together.

"Because I already have," she whispers and there's a sadness in her voice that scares Santana more than anything else. She gasps and her entire body begins to shake, stutter. She grips at her glass and the bar in front of her to control herself, even as her face turns more into Brittany, desperate and pleading to know what comes next.

Brittany glances at her mouth and smiles so kindly that Santana feels fixed and found for a moment. She knows she would smile if she could.

"It's okay," Brittany whispers and Santana knows, in the split second before lips hit her own, that she's telling the truth.

Her body quivers anyway, unmoving as a mouth brushes once, twice, three times against her own, before a long, firm kiss is pressed hard against her own parted upper lip.

She gasps desperately for air when that mouth pulls away. Her eyes remain closed, her body perfectly still, and she only lets that change when she feels Brittany pull away.

When Santana's eyes flutter open, she already has her things gathered together and shoved inside a backpack. Santana frowns when she pulls it onto her shoulder and walks back over and leans in close.

Her eyes close in anticipation for more but nothing comes. Instead, she feels Brittany's hand brush hers and she opens her eyes to see long fingers sneak into one of the pockets on the inside of her folder and pull out one of her business cards before leaning in again.

Santana opens her mouth in preparation but Brittany doesn't kiss her. She leans into her ear instead.

"Just in case," she whispers and then she's gone.

Santana watches her leave and it's not until the door snaps shut that she realizes what just happened.

It's not until she licks her lips, and tastes root beer flavored lip gloss and scotch, that she remembers that was her first kiss in four years.

In a split second, she realizes she has no idea how much trouble she's in.


End file.
